Visionary
by BC
Summary: Harry wakes up on the first of August 1943, and Tom Riddle's presence seems like the least of his problems… until Tom makes Harry his problem. Old cliché, new design. Slash HPTR
1. The Past

Disclaimer: Don't own Harry Potter, not getting any money for this.

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Author's apology

I love the clichéd plot devices and just had to write a few stories using them myself. Unfortunately, my mind refuses to come up with anything fitting the norm and thus this is not what I intended it to be… hopefully you'll enjoy it anyway.

The first cliché I've decided to work on was the old and trusty _journey in time_.

Strangely enough, I haven't seen this explanation of Voldemort before. That's not to say it wasn't written, just that I thought of it myself. Aside from that, I've been inspired by a multitude of great Harry/Tom fanfic writers, all of which I could never recall, so at least a few names: Batsutousai, Shivani, EmpyrealFantasy, Tsurai no Shi, NatalieJ, achaean, Macvanaly, Dinkel…

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Warnings: slash, sexual situations, strong language, violence, OC (not main characters), morally-ambiguous!Dumbledore (just like in canon), intelligent!Harry (not like in canon, but I can't help myself)

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Visionary

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Chapter One: The Past

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Harry wondered if his friends were missing him at all. He had been gone for weeks; the new school-year had started and so far there was not a clue about how he was going to get back to his time.

Time-displacement wasn't a lot of fun. Aside from the obvious issues, like being on his own, with no identity, no acquaintances, not a thing to his name and no real knowledge of anything specific to World War Second (past the Names of Adolf Hitler, Winston Churchill and Franklin Delano Roosevelt), he had to get used to some pretty huge changes.

Case in point, Little Whinging had been built sometime during the latter half of the twentieth century. It had been quite the shock to Harry when he woke in the middle of a twelve-feet-long downwards fall and landed, hard, on a field of corn. Disoriented and, admittedly, scared, with only his wand clutched in his hand (it was lucky he even had the wand, but since Sirius's death he fell asleep every night holding it, with his hand under his pillow), dressed (which was also fortunate, and caused not by increased paranoia, but rather by his utter lack of give'a'damn) he had walked to the nearest town. There he had found, to his profound horror, that the date was the 1st of August 1943.

He had somehow made his way to London, located Charing Cross Road and, by a stroke of luck, got a summer job at the Leaky Cauldron. Mrs Dodderidge, his employer, was nice enough to provide him with food, a cot to sleep on and just enough money (after he had turned out to be so useful as to warrant it) to afford second-hand supplies for his sixth year at Hogwarts.

He had no idea how he was going to convince Dumbledore about who he was, where he had come from and that he meant nobody any harm. The war against Grindelwald was brewing and the atmosphere of fear and suspicion thickened every day, but he had to try. At least at Hogwarts he would have access to books on time-travelling and, perhaps, would be able to find out what happened to him and how to undo it.

Then, with a strike of Harry's legendary luck, every minor problem miraculously solved itself. In the beginning of the third week of the winter term, he was believed to be a previously home-schooled heir of a bastard branch of the Potter family, Sorted into Slytherin and immediately disowned by the contemporary Potters, whom he had the chance to meet only briefly. His background was something he had come up with after he got his Hogwarts letter (that had caught him by surprise, but it was rather a pleasant one) and realised that he would only have to convince Dippet with some sob-story, not Dumbledore. There had been an off-chance that Dippet knew Legilimency… but that worry turned out to be for naught.

Today, on the 14th of September 1943, Harry James Potter was eating his breakfast at the Slytherin table and trying to ignore the way his year's prefect was glaring at him. When his pumpkin juice began to bubble, boiled by the force of that glare, he looked up and glared right back.

Tom Riddle – and he was freakishly handsome at that age and, gods, how Harry hated that – and he had a brief glaring contest, which Harry won by sheer force of his hatred for the murderer of his parents (such a pity that slaughter on school grounds was unfeasible, or he would have solved that issue _right now_).

"_What is your problem_?!" Riddle hissed.

"_You are my problem_!" Harry retorted in a typical Gryffindor fashion, uncaring that he wasn't supposed to have known about any Tom Riddle even existing.

When Riddle's eyes widened in a surprise he was unable to hide, Harry figured that he must have done something stupid. He replayed the conversation – if one could call two hissed sentences a conversation – in his mind, groaned, and bashed his head against the table, having just enough foresight to aim next to his plate.

A busty blonde sat down next to Riddle (who briefly grimaced and then turned to her with a frosty smile) and simpered at him. He let her babble in between bites of some kind of vegetable, waiting for a moment when her attention was elsewhere, so that he could glare at Harry one more time and hiss: "_This conversation isn't over_."

x

Since Harry hadn't had his O.W.L. results to present, the staff had simply tested him in each class he was interested in taking, and either admitted or refused him. He passed Potions by the skin of his teeth (mostly because Slughorn wasn't as strict as Snape, and because the sixth year curriculum now encompassed potions he had learnt in fifth year in the nineties), and had no problems with Transfiguration (though he took care not to meet Dumbledore's eyes), Charms (taught by a young and yet more chipper than usually Flitwick) and Defence. Kettleburn kicked him out of Creatures, but it didn't really sting. Harry eventually decided to take Herbology, too, simply because it was a waste to not have at least five subjects. Besides, Professor Burrinah was cool, and believed in motivating his students rather than scaring them into submission or boring them into stupor. Harry suspected Burrinah was using the back of Greenhouse Six to grow 'medicinal' cannabis. Sprout didn't hold a candle to him.

…thus, with only five subjects, Harry had a lot of leisure time, whereas Riddle had twice as many classes and spent his rare free period in library.

After living with the boy in one room for two weeks, Harry had no qualms about admitting that Tom Riddle was a genius. He was also a jerk and had an odd, intellectual sense of humour which made Harry involuntarily laugh whenever he, accidentally, got the joke. Mostly he didn't, but it was still funny to watch as the Slytherins sucked up to the sixth-year Prefect while he totally snubbed them, which they didn't even notice.

Considering Riddle's plentiful social and academic obligations, it was a minor wonder that it only took him two days to catch Harry alone. Classes were over, Harry was working on his Transfiguration homework and there was a bit of a Quidditch-related House-wide free-for-all going on in the common room, so Harry had not expected anyone to come down into the dormitory.

He thought a couple of very vulgar words addressed to the person who disturbed him, even though they had the decorum to shut the door and do so quietly.

"Careful, Potter. You wouldn't want to fry your brain."

Harry didn't look up from his essay, but shifted his left hand so that his fingertips rested on the handle of his wand.

"I wouldn't want anyone else to fry my brain either," he replied and, much to his amazement, it made Riddle chuckle.

"An admirable sentiment," the Dark Lord in training said with a razor smile and sat down onto his bed, watching the back of Harry's bent neck. "Now that we have a bit of privacy… _care to tell me how you can be a Parselmouth_?"

This time Harry noticed when the speech shifted into Parseltongue; unfortunately, he had given himself out before, so there was no sense in denying that he understood the question.

"_No_."

Riddle chuckled again, deposited his bag and shoes under his bed and padded over to Harry, who found it beyond ironic that he was watching Voldemort that was wearing only his socks. And that thought sounded horribly wrong to him, because of course Riddle was wearing his uniform, every inch the picture of a pureblood heir, all the more perfect for the fact that he actually wasn't pureblooded.

He had the expression of aloof sympathy for those poor, poor wizards afflicted with less-than-pure-pedigree down to art, and he was aiming it at Harry right now.

"You are poor and lack the proper breeding, Harry Potter, but you are not stupid and I have noticed that you are more powerful than you pretend to be. Why hide?"

Harry suppressed a groan and cursed when a drop of ink fell from his quill and smeared across the parchment. Riddle leant over his shoulder and offhandedly erased it. Harry stared at the clean space, shocked by this particular boy doing something so seemingly unselfishly helpful, and waiting for the other shoe to fall.

"_None of your business_," he replied, but there was less bite in the sentence than he had intended to insert. He felt like he was losing, even though he hadn't noticed when the battle had started.

"_You could find powerful friends if you just showed that power_," Riddle hissed, not straight into Harry's ear, but close enough for it to be too close.

"_I don't want that kind of friends_," Harry replied, finally gathering enough ire to be fairly certain that his vulnerability would be hidden from Riddle when he met the boy's eyes. They were freaking blue – and wasn't that the most ridiculous thing Harry had ever seen?

"_You don't want that kind of enemies_," Riddle warned, the hiss gentle, though the prospect of threat was made clear, as though he thought that Harry had never faced any kind of danger before. He quite possibly did think that. After all, which home-school kid really knew anything about the real world?

"_I've faced worse enemies_," Harry concluded and turned back to his essay. He raised the quill, but paused before dipping the tip in the inkwell, because there was suddenly a warm hand on his shoulder.

"I don't know you, Potter. I don't really know anything about you. However, I think it would be a great loss to me and mine if you did not join us."

Harry thought quite a vicious 'Never!' but, fortunately, the Slytherin in him reared his head fast enough to prevent him from proclaiming it aloud.

x

By Christmas vacation, Harry had established himself as the generally uninteresting loner of the Slytherin house. He associated with some Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs, but he had no real friends – mostly because he would have hated to abandon them. He researched time-travelling as much as it was possible while avoiding the librarian (he truly had no idea what she was called) and other students.

He achieved satisfactory marks in Herbology and Transfiguration, with some work passed Potions, topped Defence (which didn't make Riddle sour as he would have expected, rather caused him to ask Harry to be his partner for the end-of-term-project, which Harry politely declined) and tied with Riddle in Charms, where they were paired by the teacher and ended up – who didn't expect it? – working together, since Flitwick believed they would learn more if they challenged each other better. No one ever did (and ever would) challenge Riddle as well as Harry could.

The vast majority of the student body had gone home – anyone who had anyone, really, in case they saw them for the last time – and Riddle and Harry had the sixth-years' dorm all to themselves, which drove Harry to hiding… although he wasn't all that successful.

"I've found this in my first year," a familiar – and _hated_, Harry reminded himself – voice shattered the silence of the Room of Requirement. "I never thought anyone else knew about it."

Harry sighed and rolled over on his studying rug. He should have created the room with a lock on the inside. Now it was too late…and the shelves Riddle was currently perusing were filled with books on time-travel.

"This makes odd kind of sense," Riddle remarked, pulling out a leather-bound tome. He leafed through it, closed it and put it back, before turning to face Harry. His eyes were shining, and it made his entire expression alive.

Harry gulped. Riddle wasn't handsome. He was freaking beautiful.

"You actually _are_ a pureblood, aren't you?"

Harry didn't answer that. He didn't want Riddle to know he was half-blooded; on one hand would have made him easier to identify in the future ('Harry Potter' wasn't exactly an ordinary name among wizards) and on the other might have made him actively ostracised in Slytherin.

Riddle took his silence to mean acquiesce.

"You are the Potter scion… from the future, because you know my name. You know _me_." The boy came to a halt standing above Harry, who was propped on his elbows, looking up at the bane of his existence and understanding completely why people fell under his thrall.

"And you can't tell me anything, because it would create a paradox."

Harry was startled. He had honestly expected to be interrogated and eventually tortured for information on the future. Riddle's effortless acceptance of the non-disclosure of that information was another shocking instance. He thought that if Draco Malfoy had been anything like Tom Riddle, Harry would have begged the Sorting Hat to put him into Slytherin in his first year, regardless of Hagrid's and Ron's opinions.

Riddle squatted and then sat down without the help of his hands.

"Anything you _can_ tell me?"

Harry considered it. He didn't want anyone to know about him, but perhaps a tiny bit of inconsequential information could bribe Riddle into giving him an Oath to not speak of Harry's true origin to anyone… and yes, he realised he was being overambitious, but he was used to taking risks and this teenage version of the once-and-again Dark Lord didn't really scare him.

"I could tell you some things… but only if you swear on your magic not to tell anyone." He knew Riddle's life was dearest to Riddle, but his magic came as close second.

There was a lengthy silence, but eventually Riddle must have decided that it was worth it.

"I swear on my magic that I shan't communicate the circumstances of your arrival here to anyone."

Harry blinked.

"If I see the loophole there, Riddle, it wasn't _that_ cunning," Harry mocked. Honestly – 'circumstances of arrival'? This oath would have let Riddle speak to anyone about Harry's previous life, as long as he didn't say anything about the time-travel part and let everyone draw the obvious conclusion themselves.

The boy smiled.

Harry realised that he shouldn't let himself be surprised by the reactions of someone who was totally unpredictable.

"I had to try," he said with a shrug, and Harry found himself smiling, too.

"Now, think of one where I won't find the loophole." It was inconceivable to Harry that he was bantering about life-and-death decisions with Tom Riddle. He was literally playing with the Grim Reaper.

"How about this: I swear on my magic that I shall keep all your secrets."

White light flashed, making the Oath binding, and Harry was left gaping at the boy. Unpredictability was one thing, but such a foolish trust? What did Riddle want and how would he accomplish it by tying himself so all-encompassingly?

"Why?" he asked, meeting Riddle's eyes.

"Because I truly believe that, despite your unwillingness and reticence, you are worth it."

Harry gulped again, reminding himself that he hated, _hated_ that voice. It didn't make him tingly, no, not at all. It didn't make his breath hitch or his heart-rate speed up, and if the latter coincidentally happened, it was because he was either scared to be so close to Riddle or because Riddle made him angry.

Yes, that was _exactly_ what it was.

"You've used a pseudonym in the future," Harry started quietly, picking out facts he didn't think mattered. "Your reputation was such that the name itself gained power."

"Voldemort…" Riddle said, with just a hint of awe. Now, perhaps for the first time, Harry realised that this Tom Riddle was truly just sixteen, just as uncertain about his future as Harry was, just as hopeful and just as naďve (that is to say less than any of their peers, but more than a real adult).

"Voldemort," Harry agreed, feeling no need to point out that the name actually wasn't even spoken for the fear of it, substituted with the banal You-Know-Who or He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. "I have known your name because you have committed atrocious crimes," he said, watching Riddle's awe disappear, replaced by apprehension and seriousness.

"No revolution happens without death and destruction. I am a visionary, Harry. My goals are a better future for wizards and a safer world for the children to grow up in. I-"

"I know about your childhood," Harry cut him off, sitting up because his back and arms were starting to ache. "I also know about at least one child you have doomed to a similar one," he added harshly, keeping the sneer from his face simply because it made no sense to blame this boy for something he was going to do decades later.

Riddle's forehead creased and something akin to pain flashed in his eyes.

"I… regret that…"

Harry didn't doubt the truthfulness of that statement.

"You can't tell me who, can you? I mean… I can't prevent it?"

Harry seriously contemplated it. He could not prevent Voldemort from going after him. Whatever he now told Riddle wouldn't affect his decision later. There must have been some sort of fail-safe mechanism time used to protect the spatio-temporal continuum from imploding. Perhaps he would be struck mute if he tried to disclose something he shouldn't disclose, or flung back into his own time… that actually wasn't a bad idea!

"Me," he said. "That child was me."

Then Harry saw something he doubted many people have seen. Tom Riddle stared at him, his eyes wide and moist, his lower lip trembling.

"I…I…"

There was about a minute of silence when neither of them knew what to say. Eventually Harry broke it.

"It doesn't really matter anymore."

Tom released the lip he had bit on to stop it from trembling. It was red and puffy and attracted Harry's attention quite worrisomely.

"I'm sorry," the boy said.

It must have been a miracle. Perhaps the one single thing Tom Riddle was still vulnerable to – the thought of a neglectful or abusive childhood inflicted upon the helpless. Harry had tried to picture Tom Riddle as a teenager before (or later, if one wanted to see it chronologically), and he always imagined someone like Malfoy, petty and cruel, only more intelligent, better with words and with a tad more charisma.

Tom Riddle was the furthest thing from petty and, although he would mature into a supremely cruel man, it was undeniable that, at this point in time, he had yet a shred of compassion left.

When Harry finished that line of contemplation, Riddle was once again calm and only faint red teeth-marks on his lower lip suggested that anything had transpired. Harry half-expected the boy to ask for reciprocal confidentiality, but then realised that it wasn't necessary, because Harry couldn't tell anyone anyway, since it would lead to questions about his sources.

"Anything more you can tell me?"

Harry tried to think of something that wouldn't give the boy a lead, but couldn't. Then he recalled a piece of history seemingly untied to Tom Riddle, but apparently an integral part of his younger years.

"Dumbledore defeated – _is going to defeat_ – Grindelwald in summer 1945."

Riddle nodded. "Alright. Thanks. That's helpful."

"You weren't planning on joining him, were you?" Harry asked, startled. He had thought Grindelwald was defeated before… well… now that he counted again, Riddle might have graduated by the time…

"No, but some of my… associates were, if only to observe techniques. When were you born?"

Harry blinked at the non sequitur, but shook his head as soon as his mind caught up with the question.

"Can't tell you that. Look, Riddle, I'll tell you if I think of something else, but right now I've got some research to do…"

For a while the boy stared at him appraisingly, then nodded and stood up, again without the aid of his hands. Harry noticed, belatedly, that he was keeping a plain muggle journal half-hidden under his robe.

Despite all the naivety and idealism, Tom Riddle was far from innocent.

x

"Did you hear?" Lucretia asked Walburga quite loudly, apparently intending for the whole common room to hear. Harry, huddled in a warm corner near a fireplace and absorbed in a book, didn't bother to lift his head.

Walburga's and Lucretia's malicious gossip sessions were a daily occurrence in the Slytherin common room. Harry considered it normal – after seven months spent there, he felt more at home in the dungeons than he would have felt in the Gryffindor Tower. He missed Ron and Hermione, certainly, but it slowly became a vague yearning, a nostalgic, cherished memory rather than a burning motivation to get back. He also realised, after reading so many books on time-travel, that he was too used to thinking linearly – the fact that he had spent so much time in the past didn't mean that he couldn't return into the same moment when he had left, or even earlier.

"What?" Walburga queried curiously. Her voice would not change much – she would not change much at all. At eighteen she was the same screeching harpy as the one depicted on the painting in Grimmauld Place.

"They're going to close the school!"

Harry was probably the only one who noticed Riddle sitting up straighter, and that was just because he had been watching for a reaction. He knew what was going to happen later tonight – he had seen the memory. Hagrid was going to be expelled.

Harry had noticed several people he knew (had known/would know) that were going to school at this time – most notably Hagrid, McGonagall and Augusta future Longbottom (he had no idea what was her maiden name). Also, Slytherin was crowded with familiar names – Lucretia, Walburga, Orion and Cygnus Black, Ignatius Prewett, Druella Rosier, Olive Hornby, _Alastor Moody_. It was eerie, but Harry had learnt not to mind.

"Why?" came, yelling, from many sides.

Lucretia was smirking smugly, feeling important. "Because ugly little Stewart was killed, and nobody knows who's done it," she drawled, looking around the room as if she was searching for the culprit.

Riddle's expression betrayed absolutely nothing.

x

"Professor Dumbledore?"

Harry knew he was taking a great risk, but he had a piece of parchment covered with notes and references for the books he had used and it looked solid. He would have to avoid Dumbledore's eyes, but there should have been enough evidence to make it work.

"Yes, Mr Potter?" the younger, auburn-haired and power-radiating Albus Dumbledore replied, looking over the rim of his half-moon spectacles in his customary patronising way.

"I… wanted to talk to you… in private if I could, please?"

He knew Dumbledore distrusted him – it was apparent in the lessons, where he was treated the same way as Riddle. Harry didn't really blame the man, since here he _was_ a Slytherin with no personal history who fancied himself neutral in all political matters, and that never bode well. He was a wild card which no one knew how to control.

"Certainly."

They didn't converse during the walk to Dumbledore's office, although the man filled the silence with chatter about some kind of outlandish dish Harry had never even heard of. Eventually they sat down, each on their respective side of the Head's desk, and Harry almost let himself slip into the familiar routine, when he remembered that he couldn't let this Dumbledore look into his eyes.

The situation rapidly stopped being comfortable.

"Now, care to tell me what troubles you, Mr Potter?"

"It's actually about Hagrid, sir," Harry said, fidgeting. He put the parchment on the table and pushed it towards Dumbledore. "I was curious about how he'd done it, so I looked into it a bit, but the creature he had was an arachnid, and they can't kill except with poison… but Stewart wasn't poisoned, right? So it couldn't have been Hagrid. It makes no sense…"

Harry decided it was enough drama for the moment and sat back, purposely breathing hard. Dumbledore was observing him closely.

"And why would you have gone to such lengths to clear the name of a student you have no ties to, Mr Potter?"

Harry looked up, a mask of indignation on his face, but Dumbledore raised a hand.

"Don't misunderstand me, my boy."

Harry gritted his teeth at the address, but let it pass. He had to pick his battles.

"I commend your effort – I am merely curious as to your personal motivation."

Harry had actually expected this question and he had the answer ready. "If it wasn't Hagrid, sir, than the k-killer is still here… I don't want to die!" Harry raised his voice to the end, just as he had rehearsed it. It was a wonderful performance. Now he just had to hope Dumbledore wouldn't see through it. Harry couldn't let Hagrid rot in Azkaban, and he had never heard about how Hagrid got out save that Dumbledore had intervened. Therefore it was quite possible that it was Harry himself who had presented the information needed to for Hagrid to get off.

It was actually kind of poetic.

"Ah, self-preservation." Yes, Dumbledore swallowed it, hook, line and sinker. "A wonderful trait, and especially important to your fellow House-mates. It is good to see it put to such an altruistic use."

Harry tried to look as indignant as he possibly could, before blanking his face. He was a Slytherin – supposed to take any advantage. He gave Dumbledore a wan smile.

"Is that all?" the man asked benignly.

"Just… one more thing, sir. I'd like it if you could keep my involvement quiet. My House-mates dislike Hagrid and some of them were… _happy_… about his incarceration. I'd rather live without the fear of retribution…"

"Certainly, my boy." Dumbledore smiled at him. "Is there anything else?"

Harry shook his head, eager to be out of the Lion's den as soon as possible.

"Then run along, Mr Potter. And thank you in the name of Mr Hagrid."

Despite the nerve-wracking quality of the meeting, it had gone quite well. In fact, it had been suspiciously easy. Dumbledore had been pleased as punch that Harry had had the initiative to address him about the matter… Maybe he thought Harry was almost ripe to be made into a whisperer? He was positioned perfectly for it – in Slytherin dungeons, sharing a dormitory room with young Voldemort himself, on friendly terms with many of the suspected Dark students – but, boy, did he have the wrong temperament! He was way too obstinate to become a puppet on anyone's strings, and Dumbledore wasn't absolutely good in the same way Riddle wasn't absolutely evil.

They were just enemies, and this time Harry had the power to decide not to come between them.

Well, Dumbledore had been – rightly – suspicious of Riddle since the start, possibly ever since Riddle's first year. It would stand to reason that Dumbledore had ascribed Stewart's killing to the future Dark Lord and simply left Hagrid to the tender care of dementors the very same way he would one day leave Sirius. Interesting, how even in cases of willful murder the Law Enforcement didn't take the pains to try Veritaserum on the suspects before throwing them into Azkaban.

Riddle wasn't completely wrong in his opinion that the wizarding world needed a shakeup. Its judicial system was a sham. Hogwarts was a breeding ground for future soldiers and cannon fodder. Kids were being taught to hate the other Houses the same way they were being breastfed Light or Dark ideology at home. The weaker ones left Hogwarts practically brainwashed, as future Ministry employees, Aurors, Wizengamot members or Death Eaters, oftentimes belonging to more than one of those groups.

Round the corner, the back of Harry's robe was grasped and he was thrown against a wall. A moment later his wrists were gripped and pressed into the stone, two sets of nails breaking his skin.

"_What the fuck was that, Potter_?" an unnaturally sibilant voice hissed into his ear. Harry clenched his teeth to stop the whimper of pain.

"_Hagrid didn't deserve it. He's a nice man_…" he replied, as if it mattered. Tom Riddle couldn't be bothered about guilt or innocence.

"He's not a man and not a wizard! He didn't belong here any more than the mudbloods do-"

"_And what about you_?!" Harry hissed, kicking Riddle's shin. One of his wrists was released and, surprisingly, hurt more than when it was being squeezed. "_Your own father was a muggle! You knew nothing about the wizarding world before_-"

"You know shit about me!"

Riddle never was one for physical fighting – didn't have the _physique_ for it – so Harry threw himself to the side just in time to avoid a curse. He leapt forwards, effectively startling Riddle with doing the opposite of what he was expected to do – doing the _Gryffindor_ thing.

Harry managed to shove the boy backwards onto the floor, but ended up falling on him. The yew wand was clutched in both their hands, Riddle's right and Harry's left, and… nothing else happened.

Harry took a couple of breaths to cool down and said: "You are a killer, Tom Riddle, a merciless killer who is more of a monster than any of your victims."

"Is that what you think about me?" Riddle asked quietly, falling back into English.

Harry wondered. This boy was twisted and power-hungry, but he was yet far from the homicidal maniac Harry had encountered in his first year. Not yet a monster – just misguided.

"Not yet."

"But I _will_ be…" the boy said knowingly, completely calm lying beneath Harry's not insignificant weight.

"You _will_ be," Harry confirmed.

Riddle sighed. "_That's not my intention_," he hissed softly, rolling Harry off of himself and sitting up. "_I've told you what I want to achieve – I don't… Do you know what happened that made me lose the way_?"

Harry, also sitting up, shook his head. "I've _never even known what your original goal was. There's just fear and death and pointless torture. Quest for domination and… immortality_." He might have been disclosing too much now, but the universe had yet to implode. "_I just kind of always assumed that the Dark Arts twisted you_."

"_Dark Arts_…" Riddle whispered. "_I love Dark Arts. It's the best thing there is… It must have been something else, Harry. The Dark Arts provide a way; they do not change their wielder. The opportunities they offer might affect the judgment, but they don't crawl inside your head and scramble your brains_."

"Then I don't know," Harry concluded in English, stood up and walked away, massaging his bruised and bloodied forearms.

x

"Where are you going for the holidays?" Riddle asked when he found Harry packing his meagre possessions. They were, once again, alone in the room. Harry stopped being so hyper-aware in the boy's presence, going as far as to relax once in a while. He felt that the time he was living in changed him – not that it 'crawled into his head and scrambled his brains', but that it 'provided opportunities' that made Harry react differently than he would have reacted before. For instance, people left him alone without being threatened into it. He had time to spend by himself, time to read, to study, to learn… He had time to become his own person instead of some kind of Boy Who Lived wannabe.

"Not sure yet," he replied honestly. He hoped that Mrs Dodderidge would employ him again, but was quite prepared to search for another job in Diagon Alley or muggle London. "I'll be working, so I can afford to come back next year."

Tom blinked and sat down in a chair next to Harry's. "There's a fund for those who can't afford the things…" he said carefully. As a muggle-raised student, Riddle wouldn't have known about such fund without having had need of it himself. However, to Harry that didn't present a solution.

"To give me a grant, Dippet would need to speak to my guardian. I don't have a guardian and I… don't want to accompany you for the summer if they found out."

Riddle grimaced and Harry just barely stopped himself from wincing. Then, prodded by a compassion for this boy, he said another totally Gryffindor thing: "If you want, I could come see you?"

"You would?" Riddle sounded shocked.

Harry shrugged. "I won't have much better to do, except work and essays I am sure you could help with. I grew up among muggles, so there shouldn't be a problem with that… as long as you give me an address…"

Riddle, temporarily speechless, nodded.

x

Harry found employment quite easily, working for 'Flourish and Blotts' and 'Slug and Jiggers', both part-time. He earned enough at the bookshop and had decent lodgings and food from the owner of the Apothecary, so it worked out for him.

Thus, on the second Sunday of July, he could be found in newly purchased second-hand muggle clothes standing in front of the St Mary's Orphanage. The place was clean, but that was about all the positives that Harry could say about it. There were groups of children playing games in the courtyard, all of them thin, all having eyes slightly older than they should have had, some with bruises here and there, but they did not look as unhappy as one might have expected. Perhaps it was the sunny almost-noon that lifted the spirits.

He located the one person he was searching for after about five minutes of looking. Riddle was sitting in a shadow, leaning back against a pillar, nose in a book. Harry found himself smiling as he wound his way in between the tag-playing boys and girls and approached the peristyle.

"Morning," he said, because he couldn't think of anything smarter. Riddle instinctively went for his wand, which, Harry noticed, he was keeping on his person, but stopped before actually drawing.

"_You must have a death wish_," he grumbled and reached out, wordlessly asking for a hand-up.

"_I must_," Harry agreed easily, which left the other boy without a smart comeback. "Is there somewhere you want to go, or do we stay here..?"

Riddle looked around and sneered at the crowd of kids – an expression surprisingly reminiscent of Draco and Lucius Malfoy. Someone took hero worship a bit far there…

"I can sneak out. Worst that could happen is I'd be sent to bed without supper. Happens every other day anyway," he grumbled, and moodily kicked a stone.

Harry, knowing exactly how being sent to bed on empty stomach felt, sympathised.

"I'll buy you lunch," he offered. He had enough money for that and could afford to spend it. It wasn't much, but certainly enough for two underfed teenage boys to eat their fill.

"I can't refuse that charming invitation," Riddle griped, but Harry had observed him for the past ten months and knew that look in his eyes to be one of gratitude. Riddle was happier about a plebeian lunch then he would have been about an evening at the Opera (which was touring right now because the theatre had been closed, so tough luck on that).

That first meeting morphed fairly quickly into a political debate over glasses of coke and a packet of crisps. Riddle on a war path was similar to Hermione in his fervour, but different in that he had a good idea about how the government really worked and how to promote an idea to gain supporters for it. Apart from that, Riddle also had his arguments backed by research.

Harry couldn't quite keep away after that. He returned on the next Sunday and the next one, each time taking Riddle out and buying him a lunch, while Riddle gave him pointers for Potions, Herbology and Transfiguration, and taught him things about wizarding culture Harry had had no idea about.

They spoke of their philosophies and opinions, and Harry, much to his surprise, found that, when faced with sufficient evidence, Riddle could change his mind. Somewhere along the line Riddle managed to coax Harry into actually calling him 'Tom' and accepting some of the changes he was proposing. Harry was by no means a converted follower, but certainly a sympathiser to a part of the memorandum.

x

The 1st of September 1944 fell on Friday. Harry, with an Apparition Licence so new that the ink was still fresh, picked up Tom at half past ten, exchanging a couple of phrases with Mrs Cole, the less than impressive head matron of the less that impressive institute. Harry without a qualm introduced himself as the Apprentice to Mr Dumbledore, whom Cole knew from a previous visit, and hopefully one day a renown Transfiguration Master himself. Tom, doing his best wide-eyed innocent expression was looking at Harry with awe, and that finally convinced the woman to let the two boys leave, believing Harry to actually be an adult supervisor. Thus Harry's first Side-Along Apparition included Tom Riddle as a reluctant, but safely reassembled passenger.

The platform was packed and the two boys appeared in the midst of chaos. Thanking all four Founders for a Shrinking Charm, which saved them the bother of lugging trunks behind them, Harry and Tom boarded, ignoring the curious and mostly disapproving looks they were getting from all sides.

Harry drifted past the occupied compartments in a haze, mentally going over what had happened at the orphanage. The Cole woman wasn't very bright, and there was a hateful undertone to her rigid politeness (Tom had learned the sneer he would later teach to his Death Eaters from her), but she was working around children and well used to their tricks. She might have been scared of Tom and predisposed to give him whatever he asked for just so she would be rid of him, but even so, it had gone too smoothly.

Tom glanced at him expectantly.

Harry shrugged off the weight of that gaze and thought about Tom's awe-inspiring acting skills. Harry had, sort of, maybe, put one over Dumbledore, but it took all he had. Tom deceived Dumbledore practically on daily basis, to such a degree that Dumbledore had adopted a 'guilty until proven innocent' approach to him. Tom could convey emotions that weren't actually genuine frighteningly credibly.

He had, likely, used it on Harry, too. Harry wouldn't have known. Wouldn't have known to watch for it – who the heck expects that kind of deception from a sixteen-year-old? Had the remorse about screwing up Harry's childhood been fake? And Tom's intermittent kindness – was that just manipulation?

Tom opened the door to a compartment for Harry and ushered him in, before Harry could protest that he didn't want to turn his back. It was an absurd objection, anyway – Harry routinely slept in the same room as Tom.

They sat down. Tom narrowed his eyes at Harry. When that garnered no response, he settled and glared out of the window at the families milling about on the platform.

"What are you waiting for me to ask?" Harry inquired, and cast a Silencing Spell.

Tom's head whipped around so quickly it was a wonder he didn't sprain his neck. "How?"

Harry chuckled. It was such an un-Slytherinish response it deserved a little revenge.

"Okay. How?" he said with a completely straight face.

Tom narrowed his eyes. "_You're the only one who dares me to lose my temper, Harry_," he hissed.

Harry laughed, knowing full well that Tom would come up with revenge, yet at the same time – perhaps naively – believing that it would be one fitting the 'crime' of teasing.

"How did you know I was waiting for you to ask something?"

Harry shrugged. "Guess I just know you."

Tom gave him a look too serene for his seventeen-year-old face. There were plans being made and discarded behind those blue eyes, and Harry wondered if he should be worried – if, one day, Tom would decide that he couldn't tolerate anyone who actually could predict him part of the time.

"I have been appointed as the Head Boy," Tom stated, observing Harry closely to make sure he didn't miss the spontaneous reaction, should Harry attempt to hide it. There was no surprise though.

"I knew you would be," Harry replied simply and recovered a book from his pocket, Shrunk independently from the rest of the luggage.

"Sometimes," Tom paused to rethink whether he really wanted to say his thoughts aloud, but eventually decided to continue, despite it being an admission of his own shortcoming. "Sometimes it's easy to forget where you come from. You're a Hogwarts student, learning the same things, thinking and acting the same – or _almost_ the same – way. Sometimes I don't think about you as anyone but my…" This time the pause was longer and Tom's face became shuttered before he finished the sentence: "…class-mate."

Harry wasn't happy about what he did next, but life in Slytherin taught ruthlessness effectively.

"_Oh, you don't think of me as your class-mate, Tom_," Harry said, deliberately using Parseltongue to affect the boy as much as he possibly could. "_You don't think of me as an 'associate'_."

The fact that Harry didn't know what Tom thought of him wasn't as relevant. The point was to see the future Dark Lord flustered – or as flustered as he got. Tom had the in-built reflex to resort to anger instead of floundering that would lead to embarrassment.

"_Oh, so now you can read my mind, too_!"

"_Hardly. Failed my Occlumency lessons – wouldn't even try Legilimency on a sentient being_," Harry retorted, enjoying the rare bit of colour adorning Tom's cheeks. Tom Riddle was, indeed, quite beautiful.

"_You cannot… I'll teach you_," Tom asserted.

Harry understood perfectly that it was meant to be an order rather than a suggestion, but he wouldn't stand for it.

"_Thank you for that kind offer_," he said with a heavy sarcasm, "_but I'll pass_."

"_But_-"

"_I've been tortured quite enough, thanks_," Harry hissed forcefully. "_I won't let you or anybody else traipse through my mind_-"

Tom's face rapidly shifted into a fair approximation of Harry's own scowl. "_Traipse through your mind? What- Who the fuck tried to teach you_?"

Harry met Tom's eyes in a brief glaring contest, which was becoming something of a tradition between them, enjoyable still because they never could predict which one would win. This time it was Tom.

"_A guy who hated my guts_," Harry grumbled. "_Appointed by the venerable old coot Albus Dozen Middle Names Dumbledore_."

Once Tom stopped chuckling, he took it upon himself to actually _explain_ how one should go about clearing their minds and building mental shields. Needless to say, Harry learnt more during that train-ride than he had during all his previous Occlumency lessons.

x

"I hate Halloween," Harry proclaimed, sat down in front of Tom's armchair and leant back, resting his head against the side of Tom's thigh.

The boy looked down at him with a mixture of curiosity and amusement directed at the rest of the common room, which was unabashedly staring at Harry, whose familiarity with the uncrowned Prince of the dungeons was unprecedented. Not even Lucretia, who had at one point spread (false) rumours about her being Tom's lover had ever had the gall to actually touch Tom without being invited to do so.

The evolvement was quite unexpected and seemed to have happened sometime during the summer, though Harry could not pinpoint an actual occasion. Neither he nor Tom had any inclination to touch other people, but somehow came to accept it from each other with ease. Harry suspected it might have been due to their similar background – both the shrinking away from people and the acceptance.

"Why?" Tom asked disinterestedly, going back to his book and listening with half an ear.

Harry wasn't having it. "I'm not telling you in front of everybody," he snapped. "Especially not if you're asking without being interested in the answer," he added and recovered a corrected and marked Defence test from his bag, unrolling it and looking up the mistakes he had made. To no surprise of his, there was not a dot of red until the very end, where Professor Merrythought scribbled 105 percent and circled the number.

"_I didn't know it was serious_," Tom hissed by way of a supposed apology. His contriteness was most likely so much bullshit, but Harry couldn't tell.

"_When have I ever proclaimed my hate of anything and not meant it_?" Harry replied demurely, counting on the chatter around them to drown out the quiet hissed conversation, especially since they both were seemingly absorbed in their reading and there was nothing to suggest any kind of communication was going on between them.

"_You never said you hated anything_," Tom admitted. "_It's actually strange. Everyone has strong dislikes_."

"_I hate the woman that killed my Godfather. I thought_…" Harry raised his head and Tom actually met his eyes this time, even though his face was upside-down, "_I thought I hated the man that killed my parents_."

Tom, about the smartest person Harry had ever met (possibly including Dumbledore and definitely including Hermione), put the meaning together immediately. He went paler and a bit grey, and his lower lip trembled faintly, reminding Harry of the time they had met in the Room of Requirement.

"Shit…" Tom gasped. "I should have… _shit_."

This time the conversation attracted attention from the by-sitters, and Harry didn't want to continue it in front of them. He also forbade himself from looking for hints of Tom's possible insincerity.

"How can you even… why…"

"_Dorm_," Harry hissed, stood up and walked away.

Tom followed practically on his heels. Within half a minute the door was shut, locked and warded and Tom let go for once, slamming his entire bag into the nearest wall, shattering the inkwell inside it and probably soaking all his books and notes, but not caring one whit.

"How could you not tell me? How?! How can you even stand to talk to me?! You said I was a monster, I committed atrocities, but, for Salazar's sake, I killed your bloody parents! I… I killed…"

Tom sank to his knees and a moment later was joined by Harry, who gripped his jaw strongly enough to leave bruises and forced him to look up.

"You did shit! Lord Voldemort will kill my parents someday in the future, but you're a freaking seventeen-year-old and, as far as I know, you've only killed four people!"

Tom jerked as if he was struck, but didn't manage to free his jaw from Harry's grip. "_You know about them too_…"

Harry nodded.

How much of Tom was a cold, calculating sociopath and how much just an abused kid with a cauldronful of issues? How much dramatic talent did he have? Harry wanted to believe that this fit, at least, was real. He was growing too close to Tom Riddle – now, belatedly, he realised that somewhere along the way they had crossed the line of friendship – and any further entanglement just meant Harry setting himself up.

It came down to the fact that he wanted to believe Tom. He felt almost rejuvenated by his resolution, and it was all too easy to look into Tom's eyes and let himself see the need for reassurance therein.

"Look, it wasn't easy to get over it. You wondered more than a year ago what was my problem with you – well, that was my problem. But you're not Voldemort yet. You're Tom Riddle. And I can't treat you like I would Voldemort."

"_You're unbelievable_!" Tom exclaimed with a chuckle that sounded a tad hysterical. "_You're totally_ _bonkers_." He took several deep breaths and eventually calmed down enough to lean against somebody's bed and close his eyes. "_You said I doomed you to an abusive childhood – should have realised_."

Harry shook his head, even though the other boy couldn't see it at the moment. "You've only done a half of it. The other half is Dumbledore's to answer for. I mean, killing my parents was pretty nasty from you, but you weren't the one who gave me to a couple of bigoted muggles without so much as by your leave and hadn't bothered to check on my living conditions for years."

"One day I'll see that man dead. And I'll laugh," Tom promised.

Harry honestly could not object. He had no deep-seated hatred of Dumbledore, but the resentment gathered during his fifth and sixth year had grown into strong antagonism.

"If you'll live that long," Harry muttered, shocking even himself when he realised he actually hoped that Tom _would_ live that long.

x

"I got you something," Tom said on the way to breakfast of the 25th of December.

"I got you something, too," Harry replied. They met each other's eyes and Legilimentically conveyed their mutual distaste for the holiday and the reason they excluded each other from the boycott of traditions. Conversely, Harry had gotten good enough at both Occlumency and Legilimency for him to confidently meet Albus Dumbledore's twinkling gaze during Transfiguration classes.

Harry reached into his pocket and brought out a crudely wrapped tiny package. Tom did not look disappointed at all, rather expectant. He ripped the parchment and for a moment just took in the stone that had been in it. It looked unremarkable on the first glance, but once he realised what it was…

"Pretty trinket," he said in a tone that might have been serious or sarcastic.

Harry knew it was his way to hide discomfort and didn't let it bother him. "Figured I'd give you something practical – swiped it from the Apothecary while cleaning. Old man never noticed it missing. Not too good with his math, I suspect." Harry also knew he wasn't nearly as good at hiding his own discomfort. He glanced at Tom quizzically.

The little bastard leered at him. "I've left yours in the dorm. You'll get it later."

A moment later Tom was dodging jinxes until he had a chance to draw and shield.

Harry had to catch himself and bite his tongue innumerable times during the day, but he had succeeded in doing to Tom what Tom had planned to do to him (and managed, though Harry wasn't likely to let him know) – drive the other one up the wall with curiosity.

They got back to their room around nine in the evening. Harry feigned exhaustion, went through his ablutions and slid into his bed, drawing the cover over his head, all under the disbelieving near-gape of one Tom Riddle.

It wasn't until Harry started to get bored pretending to be asleep and counting three seconds between each inhale that Tom lost the contest.

"_Harry Potter, you are evil_!" he hissed desperately, and Harry just couldn't keep the laughter in. It burst out and he fought off the cover and rolled over to look at Tom – who was really very beautiful all flushed and with angry lightning in his eyes.

For a moment the boy stared, not understanding, and then it dawned on him. He crossed the distance and sank onto the edge of Harry's bed, in his hands holding a package that was much neater than the one Harry had given to him. The lightning disappeared from his eyes and all that was left was an odd glow that didn't hold an iota of malice.

"Sorry, Tom," Harry offered, "but you admit you deserved it…"

"Probably…" Tom replied absently and reached out to deposit the present into Harry's lap. "I wanted to give you something _magical_."

Harry unpacked it with the utmost care, not ripping the wrapping even though he knew he would probably just throw it away later. Inside it was a simple frame.

"It's meant for muggle photographs," Tom explained. "Makes them move. I know you don't have any now, but one day you're probably going to…"

Harry smiled, at the frame and at Tom. In all his years, no one who knew incomparably more about his history than Tom had ever came up with something that perfect for him. He had no idea what to say but: "Thanks."

It seemed to be enough.


	2. The Paradox

A/N: I knew it! I knew cliché was the way to go if I wanted lots of feedback! It only took me, like… four years to realise it…

Ah, well… Thank you! If it wasn't apparent from the previous paragraph, I'm immensely grateful for the record-breaking number of reviews. Thanks, everybody!

To add to the author's note from the first chapter: akuma-river pointed out SheWolfe7 as a notable HP/TR writer, and I also realised I forgot cheryl bites, which I am eternally ashamed of. (I thought I was going to die reading Voldie's Book Club and How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Love Lord V. It would have been a most enjoyable death, too…)

Anyway… onto the second chapter.

x

Chapter Two: The Paradox

x

The New Year and Tom's (uncelebrated) birthday passed and classes started again. Harry was becoming less of a loner, his association with Tom saddling him with social obligations, not the most welcome of which was attendance of Slughorn's parties. He mostly acted as Tom's shadow, watching the boy sound out the other guests and, sometimes, form alliances, but he found nothing enjoyable about the mindless prattle that filled the room, or the champagne and the caviar… or the whole posh atmosphere. He just didn't fit in.

Tom, however, wasn't ashamed of him in the least, rather coaxed him to take part in the conversations and introduced him to people that had already been screened before. Harry learnt to move in the aristocratic society, although he would probably never like it.

The classes were over for the day, and the two seventh-year Slytherins for once secluded themselves in the Room of Requirement, enjoying a soft carpet, with Tom lying on his back and holding his book above his face and Harry on his side, with his head on Tom's stomach.

They have been like that for less than a quarter of an hour and it was already becoming unbearable to Harry. The lying on the stomach part was nice – he had been shell-shocked when Tom just did it to him one day and continued to do so until Harry decided that it probably was enjoyable and tried it today – but he could hear Tom's heartbeat thumping in his left ear, which was skin-far away from the abdominal aorta, and simply couldn't concentrate. When he realised he was trying to read the same paragraph for the third time, he just gave in and took up Tom-watching.

Tom was… Tom. He was vaguely similar to Harry, in that they both had black hair, though Harry's was longish and Tom's short. Tom also had blue eyes, but it wasn't Neville's watery blue or Dumbledore's crystalline, it was a bit darker and with a hint of green. And Tom's mouth was just… perfect. He was all bloody perfect, even though his arms were too weak for a physical fight and his ribs stuck out a bit (which Harry could feel right now) and he had to charm away the wisp that just could not be called a beard or risk humiliation.

"What?" Tom asked, finally noticing that Harry was observing him.

"_You're getting on my damn nerves_…" Harry hissed. It came out petulant rather than indignant.

Tom, not bothering with useless inquires, lifted an eyebrow.

Harry sat up, shook his head and turned forwards, which basically meant he turned his back onto Tom.

"Harry?"

He just _had_ to be _fucking_ perfect.

Feeling a hand on his shoulder, Harry twisted around, finding his nose about an inch from Tom's. His resolve was strong, but not that strong. He brought his hands up, steadily, determinedly; one cupped Tom's face, the other gripped the side of his robe to keep him in place. Deciding that two seconds had to have been enough for the boy to flee if he had been so inclined, Harry leant in and kissed Tom.

And, Salazar, was it everything he had wanted it to be. It was pliant and contrary and welcoming but not, with a lingering sense of wrongness, but Harry knew that he wanted to do it again and again and then more, until his mind was blown and there was nothing left but to begin from the start.

When Tom kissed back that whole thought shattered and there remained nothing but here and now and Harry was, for the first time in conscious memory, uncaringly happy. They remained like that for a while, just kissing, not rushing it. Time was playing with them, but they took all that they could have.

Eventually they separated, and Harry felt Tom's breath on his lips and Tom's eyes were too close to focus on.

"Good to know I can still manipulate you," Tom said dazedly, but Harry was equally dazed and the meaning of the sentence was very nearly lost on him.

When it penetrated, he wasn't angry. Not even disappointed. He had deliberately surrendered himself to Tom's manipulation when he had realised that it made him feel better than dogged stubbornness and moral high-ground.

He chuckled. "How long?" When had Tom started seducing him?

Tom scoffed. "A year? Longer?" He shrugged. "I have no idea. But I have _known_ for four weeks now."

"Known what?" Harry asked, tensing under Tom's palms. He didn't know what he wanted to hear, although he had a clear idea about what he did not want: he didn't want shallow attraction, an arrangement or a casual relation. Harry knew Tom's passion better than Tom knew it himself, and Harry wanted it all, for as long as he could have it.

"That I want you – want you to stand by me, to watch my back and to tell me when I'm about to do a mistake. You are the second person I've ever trusted, Harry. Don't blow it. The first one regretted it – still does. Always will."

Harry breathed in so he could answer, but he had nothing to say past the obvious. So he just kissed Tom again, and this time that perfect mouth opened and Tom's tongue slid in between Harry's lips and it was slightly less exhilarating than the first foray, but Harry would never ever, ever, _ever_ take it back.

x

The spellwork was tricky.

Harry didn't have enough time alone. He would have asked when that had happened – wasn't he the resident loner? – but he knew it was a direct consequence of allowing Tom Riddle to guide him into the fold. He also didn't know where that was going to lead him: he wouldn't become a Death Eater, no matter how this little interlude between Tom and himself would turn out, he would die before he accepted the Dark Mark, and he wasn't going to segregate people based on their ancestry.

He certainly wasn't going to rub elbows with Lestrange's sons or daughter in law, Macnair, the Carrows' and their ilk.

Nevertheless, Tom was taking over more and more of his life as the second term started, and Harry barely kept up with his class-work (not everybody could be a bloody genius), so he certainly didn't have enough time to learn spell-detection and in his rare unsupervised moments find out what exactly was the true reason why Tom had given him the frame.

He wasn't as infatuated as to believe it was sheer sentimentality.

Intelligence, perhaps? That seemed most probable – once Tom realised he couldn't control Harry, he would certainly want to at least watch him…

Even if it was a bug, though, Harry doubted that was all. There must have been other enchantments, because Tom didn't do things by halves.

Maybe, he deliberated, the frame was like the diary, a receptacle for a memory of Tom.

Or a memory of Harry.

"If it bothers you that much that it's empty, why don't you ask Ambercrombie to draw you a portrait," Dolohov suggested when he saw Harry glaring at the thing.

"It worries me that I don't have a clue what it would do if I put a picture inside," Harry said, perhaps a little too sincerely. "It might steal somebody's soul or something."

Dolohov chuckled, then suddenly paused and reconsidered. With a thoughtful frown, he surveyed the innocently inactive frame. "That is remarkably macabre of you, Potter. However, I would venture a guess that if you shared your anxiety with Tom Riddle, you might find an answer to your questions."

Far from reassured, Harry made a mental note to pay attention to Dolohov, because he was craftier than he appeared at a glance.

Later that night, after Tom had trudged in and gone straight to the bathroom, Harry decided to do a little manipulating on his own to see if it worked both ways. He waited until Tom had trapped himself in the shower, snuck in (tripping Tom's ward, but there was no way around that) and Locked the door with a spell that would burn a couple of phalanges off anyone who tried to break it.

Tom stood beneath the showerhead, with his back to Harry, at a glance unaware, but in fact coiled to attack. It was impossible not to pause for a few seconds and enjoy the sight of the rivulets of water running down the expanse of pale skin, but Harry quickly shook himself out of the trance and spoke up before he was blasted with a wandless firebolt: "It's difficult to trust someone, isn't it?"

Tom actually braced himself on the tiled wall as the fight left him. The air was thick with moisture and Harry had to take off his glasses, but even through the forming mist he could see how Tom's muscles gave out and it was all the boy could do not to sink to his knees. Harry regretted that he would miss such a delicious picture, but he had a different agenda tonight.

"How much would you say you trust me?" he inquired faux nonchalantly.

Tom gasped out a short, breathless laugh. "More than yesterday, less than tomorrow."

That was a good, ambiguous, politically correct response. Harry hated it, and he definitely did not accept it as an answer to his query.

He stepped closer to the stall, still dressed in his full uniform. If it got wet, the house elves would dry it – he needed it for the illusion of power over Tom. Nakedness meant vulnerability, especially for someone who never revealed himself, in any sense of the word, to the people around him, someone who knew how easy it was for others to detect and use his weaknesses unless they remained hidden at all times. Tom might have been able to seriously hurt, perhaps kill Harry with naught but his innate magic, yet the goal here was not to make him fight but to make him surrender.

"Your journal," Harry said, moving so close that he felt droplets of water on his face, and twirling his wand in his fingers.

Tom pressed his body to the wall, putting as much distance as he could between them, but he kept his arms down, allowing Harry the sight of his front – of the lean form, of sharply contrasting dark hair below his waist curling around his flaccid penis, pale thighs, a multitude of little white scars, some of which were too regular, certainly inflicted deliberately.

Blinded by his fear and the effort not to show it, Tom completely missed just how easily he could have taken control of the situation.

Harry's throat was tight as he spoke again: "You have enchanted it. Put a piece of yourself inside."

Tom's jaw tightened. He fisted his hands, ready to attack or defend himself if Harry attacked. They were standing on the edge of a blade here. Harry had not intended to take it to such extreme lengths, but there was no doing things half-way when it came to Tom.

"Are you going to be trailing pieces of yourself wherever you go?" Harry asked, putting his wand back into his holster. "Because I won't be content with half a wizard."

"I know what you're doing," Tom told him in. His voice was fragile. The mere awareness that one was being manipulated didn't preclude it from working, as Harry knew from experience.

"What did you do?" Harry asked.

Tom gathered his magic to him like a shield, a cocoon tightly wound around his otherwise bare body, and the temperature of the room instantly dropped. The fog condensed on all surfaces. Harry, dressed in a partly soaked robe, shivered.

"Give me an Oath that you will not reveal what I'll tell you," Tom demanded.

Harry shook his head. "Trust the Oaths I've already given you."

They maintained the stalemate for so long that Tom's lips went blue with chill and Harry was tempted to rub his hands together to warm his fingers. Finally, Harry reached out, pulled Tom out of the stall, against his body, and cast a warming charm on both of them.

Tom laced his fingers with Harry's around the wand, forcing a redistribution of power. Harry gave in to the temptation and trailed kisses from the corner of Tom's mouth to his shoulder. Tom became pliant in his arms.

"You'll never find anyone better than me," Tom promised.

"You don't know that," Harry replied. "The future is full of possibilities."

"But there is only one of myself."

Tom's eyes were close enough that Harry saw them clearly even without his glasses. No matter how self-assured he made himself sound, Tom was far from certain.

"Is there?" Harry countered. "Explain to me what is in the journal, if not another you."

Tom, after a brief surprise of how much he already knew without being told, Summoned a towel and told Harry about Horcruxes.

x

Spring was upon them. Sun rose earlier and set later, but there was still frost on the ground, and patches of unthawed snow here and there. Harry was lounging in the Room of Requirement, staring out of the window at a meadow of snowdrops and contemplating last night.

Tom was still sleeping, a solid body next to Harry's own, moving with regular inhales. There was a bit of warmth where his skin touched Harry's, in contrast with the chill of the room.

It was rather a nice day overall, Harry decided. As opposed to yesterday, he wasn't a virgin anymore, and it did not feel as a loss at all. He was in love with Tom and admitted it to himself, although he wasn't likely to say it out loud. He was also quite certain that – incredible bullshitting skills aside – Tom was in love with him, and once he got over the unfathomable irony of that, he found that it was the best thing that could have ever happened to him.

By mutual consent, they acted in public the same way they had acted before: singled each other out from the crowd, made it obvious that they to a degree shared their power, but left everyone tying themselves in knots trying to figure out exactly what sort of relation there was between them. It was probably due to they're confining the relationship into complete privacy, which was rather sparse, that it took them this long to get to the next step.

Harry was already wondering what the next one would be – there must have been something, because a… _love_ (because it was love, there was no denying it) like theirs, with all the consuming yet constrained passion, simply could not become stagnant.

"Harry…"

He shivered and looked down. Tom was staring sleepily upwards at him.

"Hey," Harry said softly.

Tom wiped his eyes and looked at Harry again, before reaching out to him. Harry had no idea what was being asked of him, but he took it as a general invitation and kissed Tom, appreciative of the lack of morning breath.

"_Harry_…" Tom hissed. In the current position it aroused Harry, which was exactly Tom's intention, and motivated him to deepen the kiss and bite. Tom actually whined into his mouth. His hips rose from the bed and Harry put his hand on one of the protruding hipbones, stroking along its inner side with his thumb. Tom's eyes darkened with what Harry now recognised as lust. "_Take me_…"

That was an offer that could not be refused, and although it had initially shocked Harry to find that Tom was mostly submissive in bed, it oddly fit the boy's disposition. After a whole day of scheming and controlling, it was only natural that he would want to let go for a while and trust someone – trust _Harry_ – to take care of him.

x

"I want to formally introduce someone to you," Tom spoke, regally seated in the armchair at the head of the coffee table in one of the parlours Slughorn used for his parties. The old fatty had very nearly fallen over himself when Tom asked for its use for a club of sorts, and thus they had comfortable space to work in. Tom had garnered Harry's assistance in warding the room prior to the meeting, so they were relatively certain that not even Dumbledore would be able to listen in.

There were four other boys seated around the table, all of them Slytherin upperclassmen – Antonin Dolohov, Theodore Nott, Evangelos Rosier and Vulcan Mulciber. They were what one could call Tom's Inner Circle – Harry had known about them being Death Eaters in the future, so neither of them really came as a surprise. The feeling, however, was likely to remain one-sided.

"You all know this wizard and therefore might be inclined to disrespect him," Tom said frostily. By the way Mulciber shuddered, Harry reckoned it was unlikely he would face any 'disrespect' after Tom's introductory speech. "I warn you now not to do so, else I shall be… displeased."

He met the eyes of each of the four boys and the point was made. With a subtle gesture of his hand, Tom called Harry forth.

Stepping out of the shadows, Harry's previously unnoticed presence startled them. Two of them – Mulciber and Rosier – reached for their wands. Dolohov and Nott remained seated, probably aware that their leader would not have brought a threat into a private meeting.

"Potter…" Dolohov greeted, inclining his head. The name was spoken with careful neutrality, as was expected of a Slytherin faced with a player of unknown power and position.

Harry kept his face blank and his Occlumentic shields up, which turned out to be a good idea, because Rosier did attempt to Legilimise him.

"That could be viewed as disrespect, you know?" Harry said softly, taking an empty seat to Tom's right, which was a statement of its own.

"I… apologise?" Rosier offered feebly.

Tom's eyes flashed. "Have I not warned you?"

"I'm sorry!" the boy said much more forcefully. "I'm sorry… my Lord…"

Harry blinked. It was the first time he had heard Tom addressed as 'Lord', but he should have realised that it was a title reserved for private meetings. It failed to placate Tom, but Harry met his eyes and Legilimentically conveyed his own sentiments – he would let the first offence slide, merely issue a warning; the second one would be punished harshly to create an example.

"Do not test my patience," Tom said eventually.

All four boys offered semi-bows, Rosier relieved to be temporarily forgiven. It was actually kind of amusing.

"My Lord," Dolohov spoke when Tom didn't say anything for a while, "we know Harry Potter as a House-mate, but you said you wished to introduce him…"

The not-quite question hung in the air for a moment, before Tom gave them a chilly smile.

"Very well, gentlemen. Meet my right-hand man."

The anger and envy emanating from Dolohov and Rosier was almost palpable. Even so, Harry had known very well why he settled for this position, rather than accepting Tom's proposal to become his equal.

"You may address me as Mr Potter," Harry said, smiling in a way that made him look scarily similar to Tom (about which he was informed by the bathroom mirror before he hexed the annoying personality out of it).

"It is an honour to become acquainted with you, Mr Potter," said Dolohov, who seemed to be the most intelligent of the bunch.

Neither of the four, quite uncharacteristically of Death Eaters as Harry knew them, repeated Rosier's mistake.

"My pleasure," Harry said blandly. He wondered what Ron and Hermione would do if they saw him now. Probably hex first, check for Imperius and other means of mind-control later. Ask questions… perhaps eventually. Ironically, he felt like he had grown into himself here and now and became a confident wizard with a clear picture of his future.

Life, albeit ridiculously twisted, was good.

x

As finals approached, the fifth and seventh year students grew impatient, irritable, and generally irascible. The madness wasn't nearly as pronounced as Harry knew it to be in the nineties, but it was still marked. Slughorn as good as opened a shop with Calming Draughts, and did not blink at the students who came asking for dangerous, even potentially lethal doses.

Tom and his circle of 'friends' received all the potions they required from Tybalt Lestrange, who owled them to his fiancée Cathalina Syracruse – a rather plain but rumoured to be vicious Hufflepuff fourth year. Tom had them distributed to anyone who asked, but he took none himself.

He studied with the same icy calm that he always presented, except he did not schedule quite as much time to spend with Harry as he had in the months past.

Harry was far from disappointed. He did a fair attempt at reading some textbooks, but soon lost interest and decided that he knew enough to get those five N.E.W.T.s and seriously did not give a damn whether he got Outstandings or Acceptables. Instead of burying himself in notes and books, he tried to crack the mystery of Tom's Christmas present.

He easily determined there was no sentience. It was more difficult to conclude that the only active charm was a listening one keyed to particular words – the book Harry had borrowed from the library went on about range and power and intent, and mentioned Taboos – a technique that could allegedly affect a whole continent. He could only imagine what kind of use the Ministry made of that one… and the cowards in Law Enforcement didn't have the stones to put a Taboo on either of the Unforgivables.

Wizarding Britain deserved a revolution.

On the eve before the first N.E.W.T. examination – Transfiguration – the seventh year Slytherins and a few of the pureblood Ravenclaws commandeered the common room to do the final brush-up on their knowledge. Harry woke up when O'Gowan shrieked in her ridiculously high-pitched voice.

"I know nothing! Nothing! I am going to fail! Father will disown me-"

Harry glared and tried to rub the sleep from his eyes.

"Shut her up," Tom ordered under his breath.

Vulcan Mulciber obediently stood up and reached for his wand. Before he could Stun the girl, one of her room-mates pushed him out of the way and approached O'Gowan.

"Drink this, Immelda," the girl pleaded, offering a vial of amethyst liquid.

Harry tried to guess if it would kill O'Gowan, knock her out or only steal her voice, but he wasn't in a solicitous enough mood to care. That had been one heck of a rude awakening, and he didn't feel up to more socialising.

He rose while Tom watched the spectacle and made his way up to the dorm. The frame, silver with ornamental green vines along the outer edge, empty, mocked him from his bedside with its inscrutability. Annoyed, he cast possibly the hundredth _Specialis Revelio_ on it.

A little cloud of purple smoke enveloped it, and the results came back inconclusive. He cursed and cast a glance at the disguised Dark Arts books Tom kept on his shelf. Slughorn never came to the dormitories unless there was an emergency he absolutely had to deal with, so it should have been safe to keep contraband there, but leaving the titles displayed would have been sheer provocation, and it had yet to be discovered how Dumbledore came to know the things he knew.

"_Deformo Dormiens_," Harry tried, drawing a half-circle with the tip of his wand, before it practically coughed up a shower of silvery sparks. The sparks were attracted to magic, and a lot of them flew right back to Harry, making him light up like a disco ball, but some landed on the frame, outlining a passive charm that seemed to be tightly connected to Harry and yet another that was loosely tied to someone below the floor – three guesses who.

Harry estimated that the purpose of the first enchantment was to prevent theft, or possibly even prevent Harry from getting rid of the thing, but he didn't have a clue about the other one. It could not be surveillance, because that reacted as leastways partly active spell… Perhaps some kind of conditional locator?

"You're bright," Tom remarked, appearing in the doorway. He wore a glamour to hide the dark circles under his eyes, but Harry could easily read his exhaustion in his posture.

"_Expiatio_," Harry intoned. The visualisation of magic dispersed in the air. "You have a massive headache, don't you?"

Tom sank onto his bed and closed his eyes, which was as good as a positive answer.

"Stop trying to memorise the entire library before you leave, and-"

"Don't offer me potions," Tom cut in curtly.

Harry had been going to tell him to sleep, not to drug himself, but he didn't point it out. Contrariness was the last thing Tom needed at the moment.

"You'll do fine. You could easily teach the classes…" Harry was certain of this, since he had taught the D.A. once upon a time, and had been considerably more successful than Quirrel, Lockhart or Umbridge. Tom knew the curriculum by heart.

"The N.E.W.T.s mean nothing," Tom said. "I don't imagine I will encounter any difficulty there. It's what happens afterwards that concerns me."

Harry surreptitiously Locked the door, with a spell that their classmates would be able to break, but not immediately. That should give him enough of a warning.

"_How many of your followers have invited you to stay_?" he asked, reminding Tom that he actually wasn't facing existential problems.

"_Us_," Tom reminded him in turn.

"You have funding and the support of two dozen prominent families."

"Fools," Tom said with brutal candidness. "They call themselves traditionalists, and yet wish to break the established order. That is hypocrisy at its best." He glanced at Harry. "Some days even I don't know if I am a traditionalist or a liberal."

Harry snorted. "I don't see how it matters. You are man with a vision. You build on the experience of the past with the energy of the present thinking of the future. What would you call it?"

Mostly asleep, without even taking off his shoes, Tom suggested: "Freemasonry?"

x

Graduation ceremony came and went, directed by old Dippet who recycled his celebratory speech about 'bright young minds ready to enter the real world', 'education of the highest quality', 'integrity and character' and 'dark times, indeed, when we all have to watch our step and make sure that our friends are true and abominate those with sinister intentions' from last year.

Tom Riddle achieved one of the highest scores in the history of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. He managed to juggle ten N.E.W.T. courses in addition to his continued study of Dark Arts and his extracurricular activities. In the eyes of the public, Harry gradually fell deeper and deeper into Tom's shadow, until hardly anyone noticed his presence anymore, as if he were some less than fancy decoration.

Harry enjoyed it immensely, especially since in private he and Tom progressed far enough to understand each other just as well as they understood themselves. They occasionally shared dreams – literally – spoke of their fears and, maudlin as it sounded, could not imagine being separated anymore. Tom began to depend on Harry just as he had once suggested he would, and Harry accepted that responsibility gladly.

After Dippet's refusal of Tom as the next Defence teacher, a careful deliberation and some testing, Tom and Harry accepted a standing invitation to the Nott Manor, the wards of which did not prevent guests from warding their rooms against the host. Harry also remembered from the future that the Notts were loyal yet not fanatic, which in the end made them the best choice for long-term hosts.

To manage his growing web of contacts, Tom needed a job where he would be accessible by all casts of Dark wizards, while Harry eventually offered to handle the Light supporters. The Ministry would have been an obvious choice, but so far Tom wished to avoid the scrutiny of the DMLE and chose an alternative no one, not even the faux omniscient Dumbledore himself, could have expected.

He became a shop assistant in Knockturn Alley.

The decision was actually inspired by Harry's brief stint as dish-washer at the Leaky Cauldron, during which Harry managed to gather an inordinate amount of information just by keeping his mouth shut, his hands moving and his ears strained. Harry himself actually, after a bit of persuasion, got that job back, since Mrs Dodderidge and her little son Tom (talk about irony) remembered him with fondness, even though the landlady was quite surprised that someone with five N.E.W.T.s wanted a job as a dish-washer.

Well, Tom had ten Outstandings and worked as a shop clerk.

The wizarding world would never know what hit them.

By late August Harry had become accustomed to the rhythm of his employed life. He regularly met with several influential Light wizards, among others Edgar Bones, Elijah Diggory, Ignatius Prewett, Xenocrates Lovegood and Griselda Marchbanks. The newly retired Professor Merrythought chatted with Harry (who used to be one of her favourite students) often, gladly sharing stories of her neighbour Bathilda Bagshot. Harry asked to be introduced and within a couple of weeks learnt a lot of dirt on Dumbledore, including but not limited to the incarceration of his father, the death of his sister, his brief propagation of disclosure of the wizarding world to muggles and his youthful association with the current Dark Lord.

Tom presented Harry formally to a larger part of his support base, where Harry finally encountered someone stupid and vocal enough to suffer the brunt of his anger. After the idiot's fellows failed to patch him up, nobody dared to openly challenge Harry again.

On one such day, when Harry was sitting at the bar and drinking a well-deserved butterbeer, the door leading to muggle London slammed open and a ragged, dirty Professor Flitwick stumbled inside. Harry helped the diminutive man up on the barstool and Mrs Dodderidge brought him a shot of Firewhisky to calm his nerves so he could speak.

"Grindelwald…" the tiny teacher said as loudly as his squeaky voice allowed him to. "Defeated! Dumbledore took his wand! They're bringing him to Nurmengard!"

The room exploded in a cacophony of exclamations. Harry's eyes strayed to the portal to Diagon Alley and he spotted Tom, who had just entered and seemed confused by the chaos. Harry Legilimentically communicated the news.

Tom sighed and shook his head, gesturing for Harry to join him so they could Apparate home together and plan what to do next – as Grindelwald himself would have said, for the Greater Good.

x

In the end of February, Tom and Harry moved from Nott Manor into one of the Riddle estates. How Tom managed to inherit from the Riddles Harry had no idea; he was just glad they weren't living in Little Hangleton.

They barely finished refurnishing the house to their tastes when Tom returned from work one evening practically glowing.

"I've talked to Abraxas Malfoy today," he replied to Harry's unvoiced query. "We're invited to his sister's wedding sometime in May."

"You're excited about going to a Malfoy wedding?" Harry asked incredulously. Tom turned to him, stunned, as if that was the stupidest question he had ever heard. It seemed pretty impossible to Harry as well, but that was practically what Tom had just told him.

"Rather not," he said with a sneer. "I detest exorbitant amounts of sugar and that is exactly what it's going to be."

Harry chuckled and pulled the man down to straddle his lap. Being this close to Tom, able to smell him despite the cosmetic spells, feeling the magic thrumming in his veins… Harry could never get used to it and he could never get enough.

"_Tell me_," Harry ordered, pulled Tom's robe aside and gently bit onto his nape. Sore as the young man was after a day of hard work, it must have hurt.

"Marry me."

Harry froze. He slowly lifted his head and straightened his back, staring into Tom's eyes. His thoughts were a jumble. It made no sense, but it made perfect sense. With the correct bond, Harry and Tom would magically become one person. He still didn't understand how the prophecy implied this result but, hey, to some insane old wizards and witches it undoubtedly was absolutely clear. Even Dumbledore's blathering about love as the 'power the Dark Lord knew not' turned out to be substantiated.

"When?"

The smile Tom gave him was beatific, as if he hadn't expected Harry to agree. It was unlikely, because Tom knew him well enough to predict him most of the time.

Harry loved Tom. It was plain and simple as that.

"Saturday?"

"Okay. But not in Britain."

"Wherever you want," Tom agreed, but kissed Harry before he could make a suggestion. Swept away by the passion as they usually were when left alone for prolonged periods of time, the subject was not broached before they eventually fell asleep, too exhausted to form a coherent thought.

x

It was Saturday, the 2nd of March 1946, and the fate of the wizarding world was going to be decided soon in a small but tastefully decorated office of the Department for Magical Affairs of the Republic of Iceland.

Harry and Tom didn't bring any witnesses and planned to neither announce nor celebrate the bonding (with the notable exception of their most private celebration). For Harry, the biggest reason why he wanted to get married outside of Britain was that no one in the future would know about Tom Riddle ever having been married, which meant that there was no documentation to be found about them.

"…and so, on this day, you choose to bind your lives together until death do you part. Speak your vows." The old witch's trembling voice fell silent.

Tom and Harry faced each other over their joined hands tied together with a white silk ribbon. They had chosen a bond from the second half of the eighteenth century, a bit outdated and featuring a rather banal poem, but with all the magical aspects they were looking for. It required the poem to be recited in unison but, with the aid of Legilimency, that presented no challenge to them.

"If I'll walk to the end of world

Then only with thou by my side

The secrets kept so long untold

I never shall from thyself hide

My magic is thine, thine is mine

I pledge my very soul to thou

To me thou brighter than stars shine

To thou I'll remain true, I vow."

The built up energy of the binding ritual enveloped them, changing from blinding white to silver to gold to copper. The elderly witch backed away, or perhaps was pushed aside, gaping at the swirling light and wringing her hands. It was to be expected that such a complex soul and magical bond would feature some pretty fireworks, but Tom and Harry were both extremely powerful wizards and therefore the show was somewhat bigger than what even the professionals were used to.

When the light finally subsided, Harry felt his magic surge. He was connected to Tom, their entire beings were so closely intertwined that they partly merged. He could sense Tom even when he wasn't looking at him, every motion, every feeling was there for him to discern if he concentrated.

He even felt the one thing that drove him to select this particular bond – Tom's first Horcrux, so far kept in their house. It was all his – Harry's – and when the time was right, he would be able to call them and manipulate them back into one piece.

"Mr Riddle and Mr Riddle, I pronounce you lawfully wed."

x

Later that night, sated, Tom and Harry lay on their bed, contemplating married life. They should have been unconscious from exhaustion by this point, but the bonding magic was still making them hyperactive and preventing them from going to sleep.

Harry thought back (or forth) to when he came from. That life seemed surreal, like a dream or a nightmare, but Harry knew that it had happened. He would return to that time, he now realised it. What else could have made Tom decay into that parody of a human that was the Voldemort he had encountered? Two bonded wizards as powerful as they were naturally grounded each other. Harry knew he wasn't going to die in the past – his death would have snapped the bond or pulled Tom with him. No, someone or something would force (or had forced) Harry to return to the future.

There was no surprise that Tom went gradually madder and madder without Harry there to provide an anchor.

"_What is it_?" Tom asked quietly.

Harry let the hiss caress him until it faded into silence. How could he tell Tom – his _husband_ – that he was going to leave him, albeit unwillingly?

"_I love you_," he said instead. Tom chuckled and pulled him closer, providing as much skin contact as he could, which was a lot, since they were both naked. Harry did not regret a single action he had taken since he had fallen into the corn field – neither being Sorted into Slytherin, nor visiting Tom during the summer holidays, nor kissing him, nor bedding him, nor marrying him.

"I knew that, Mr Riddle," Tom retorted sarcastically. "Now, what is really bothering you?"

Harry didn't reply. He shifted in Tom's embrace, stroking his sides, revelling in the feel of their mixing magic. His teeth and tongue traced Tom's collar-bone from the shoulder to the dip at the base of his neck.

Tom sighed. "It's the future, isn't it? You can't tell me…"

"I'm sorry."

Tom kissed him, feeling no anger at all and only a tiny bit of frustration as far as Harry could tell.

x

"What's so special about Potter, anyway?" a whiny female voice asked from the corner of the room. It wasn't clear whether she had missed Tom's and Harry's entrance, or was really stupid enough to not understand that insulting Harry was insulting her Lord.

"_Taci Firgom_!" Tom cast in stride and ignored the wail it induced until he was seated on the throne-like chair on the dais.

Harry, as usually, shrunk into the nearest shadow and with interest watched the effects of the Transmogrifian Torture. Yellow and red sludge trickled down the woman's hands and dripped on the floor. She hid her face under her hood, but couldn't mask the grotesque deformation of her figure – she gained a hump, her shoulders dropped forwards, her torso shortened and grew wider, but her legs lengthened to keep her the same height she had been before.

It was disturbing to watch.

"Next time it will be the Cruciatus Curse," Tom announced clearly, his eyes skimming the room.

The threat turned out to be a most effective one. Order was established within seconds, and the wizards and witches formed three curved lines in front of Tom's chair. They weren't yet uniformed, but it seemed that most of them were naturally inclined toward dark colours.

"Dolohov, Rosier, Nott and Mulciber."

Three of the named stepped out from the front line.

"Where is Mulciber?" Tom questioned. Mutters proclaiming ignorance sounded from all sides; one of the few who didn't say a word was Dolohov. The man bowed briefly and looked around himself with distaste. He gave Tom an apologetic half-frown and waited for the chaos to end.

"Crucio!" Tom snarled, aiming at the idiot that yelled louder than anyone, so that he would be heard, that Mulciber was probably selling their secrets to the Ministry. They didn't have many secrets to sell yet, but the accusation was a serious one and in the future could bring about the death of either the accused, or the accuser. They needed to learn.

The screams finally subsided half a minute later.

"Speak!" Tom ordered, looking straight at Dolohov.

"He applied for the job in the Department of International Affairs. Due to the strained diplomacy with Germany, job interviews were all moved outside of the normal work-time, mostly to evenings. He is, however, hopeful that he shall bring you good news tomorrow."

Tom nodded. "Instruct him to owl me."

Dolohov bowed again, daring to smile softly. He was one of the few who were allowed that degree of familiarity with Tom.

"Now, to the point. I have a task for you four…"

x

Harry, forgotten by most of the future Death Eaters, watched from the shadows as the Hall emptied. Nott was the last to go, one of the very few who bowed not only to Tom, but also to the place where Harry's silhouette could be discerned.

Harry assured himself that they were all gone with a Detection Charm, and walked out of the shadow.

"You are remarkably skilled at that," Tom noted. "I would not be able remain unseen if I wished to."

"_You are not meant to remain unseen_," Harry replied. One day, the name of Lord Voldemort would be one that everyone would know, even though no one would speak it aloud. The only ones equally famous would be Dumbledore and the Boy Who Lived. "_You are the Visionary, Tom – you told me so yourself. You are the leader. You must shine_."

It was just so unfair that the Vision would be suspended for so long. The butcher bill itself was enough to depress Harry… Such needless waste.

"What is it this time?" Tom asked warily, rubbing his temple.

Harry recognised the signs of an impending headache and moved over to kiss Tom's brow. His temperature was perfectly normal.

"Unforgivables?" Harry asked after a while. He must have changed very much since his sixteenth birthday if the display he had seen earlier didn't bother him. The fact was that the morons had been getting on his nerves, too, and Tom must have been pretty incensed about all that denseness standing in the way of his dreams.

Cruciatus wasn't such a bad solution… unless it was overdone.

"I will be labelled a criminal anyway. It won't damage my reputation."

Harry sighed, sat on the arm of the chair and leant back. "Is it necessary?"

"It's not a question of necessity," Tom replied. "It's a question of effectiveness. Besides, look at what happened to Grindelwald. I need to be able to give my followers a fighting chance against the Aurors."

But having the Death Eaters use the Unforgivables would cause radicals to rise to power – men like Crouch and Scrimgeour. They, in turn, would give their Aurors Licences to use the Killing Curse, too, and the Ministry would form its own Death Eaters. It was going to be two sided terror, and apart from the fear and death the only thing accomplished would be making Dumbledore look good.

"They'll go wand-happy – both your followers and the Aurors."

"We need an advantage the other side does not have!" Tom protested hotly. It was both daunting and heartening to see that, despite a whole slew of wizards and witches treating him like their Lord, Tom was still only twenty years old. Granted, he was a genius with incredible memory retention and a natural talent for politics, but still, despite everything, he was only on the edge of adulthood.

"How about the Vision?" Harry suggested, despite knowing that he was going to lose the debate.

"A vision won't save a man when he's faced with one of the Ministry hounds. Contrary to popular belief, there are curses that cause damage just as bad as the Unforgivables can. I guarantee you none of the 'Ministry hounds' would hesitate."

Harry nodded solemnly. He knew all too well that the 'Light' and 'Dark', as well as 'good' and 'evil' in this war were just illusions. He was the third worst turncoat, after all, right after Pettigrew, whom Harry would very much like to kill one day, and Snape, who turned due to Voldemort's madness and might yet have been salvageable. Harry, with his added maturity, viewed Snape from a much more objective point of view, and found him a more than worthy potential ally.

Speaking of which…

"I'm just wondering if a goal that cannot be accomplished without Unforgivables is worth it."

"Do you wish to… leave?"

Harry started. He stared into Tom's eyes, struck by the sound of that voice, laced with pain, but genuinely offering a way out. He had never meant it like that. Tom was his other half and Harry only ever aimed to temper him – never to abandon, never (again) to stand against.

Harry was also moved by the fair chance to back out Tom was giving him – he doubted any of the future Death Eaters would have received such an offer. He knew what happened to people who got cold feet – as evidenced by Regulus Black's fate.

"Hardly," he replied softly, shaking his head.

Tom's relief was obvious.

"Tom, I am ultimately a Light wizard, and I'm just pointing out how they're going to perceive you. Since Grindelwald's defeat, majority of the wizarding society is openly Light."

Traditionally Dark families were proclaiming themselves Light right and left, if only to avoid persecution. Those who wished to avoid such break of tradition, or who continued to practice those traditions out of sight of the public, naturally drifted to the new Dark power – the rising Lord Voldemort.

"I'll never understand how I got mixed up with someone who considers themselves Light," Tom sighed and gestured Harry to come closer.

"_I got transported in time_," Harry explained unnecessarily, smiling. Tom's hands on his waist pulled him forwards, and he had to brace himself with one knee on Tom's throne-chair and his hands on the arm-rests, because the moment Tom kissed him he lost any semblance of balance.

"_You scared me. It's disconcerting that something can still scare me that_ _much_." Tom's sibilant whispers went straight to Harry's groin and it was very hard for him to process the actual meaning of the sentence.

"_Probably just means you love me_," he hissed back. Tom never spoke it, actually never conveyed it in any way but his actions, but that was more than enough for Harry, who wanted to feel loved, not to have meaningless words repeated to him ad nauseam.

"_Salazar would spit at my feet_," Tom concluded, more or less confirming Harry's statement, and then he smirked. "_Fuck him_."

x

Harry didn't know when he was going to return to the future but, from what he remembered, Tom Riddle disappeared sometime during 1947 and came back ten years later, mutated into an early form of what Harry called 'Voldemort' in his head. Harry liked to believe that with him there Tom would not have gone… which meant the time of his departure was nearing.

He took the opportunity presented to him by the Christmas soiree at the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, which actually looked startlingly presentable in this time, and approached the two men he had singled out from all the candidates. These were the only people currently alive (except Tom) he might have considered his friends – the only people he would trust without a binding oath.

"Antonin. Theodore."

The two addressed men stood and without a word followed Harry out of the living room, down the stairs and into the kitchen. The house elves scattered. Harry sat down at the table and cast a Silencing Spell at the door.

"I need to talk to you."

They both solemnly nodded instead of (accurately) informing him that he was pointing out the obvious. Harry smiled. This was why he chose these two to trust: the respect, coupled with their intelligence and loyalty. They were, for all intents and purposes, his favourites among the future Death Eaters.

"I fear that time will come, quite soon, when I will be unable to support Lord Voldemort. He will change, for the worse. He will… need someone who will stand by him regardless of those changes. I wish for you two to be those people, and if you have children to lead them to be equally loyal. Forgive Lord Voldemort if you feel betrayed by his actions – they won't be his own." He paused to give them a chance to think about it. To their credit, neither of them required explanations and neither asked how Harry could know these things. They simply accepted their task with grace.

"Can I count on you?" he asked after Theodore finally looked away from the fire and met his eyes.

"Yes, Mr Potter," he replied immediately. Harry didn't bother trying to hide his smile.

"I shall do as you ask," Antonin seconded.

"Thank you."

Harry inclined his head, surreptitiously cast a Listening Charm and walked out of the room. He paused on the landing, leant against the wall and listened.

"What was that about?" Theodore asked.

"Pretty obvious, isn't it? He loves the Lord. Would do just about anything for him. You've got to respect that kind of loyalty, even in a rival." Had it been anyone else in the room, Harry would have Obliviated them immediately. Somehow it didn't surprise him, however, that this particular man managed to see through Tom and Harry after more than three years of observation.

"There is no rivalry, Antonin," Theodore informed him carefully, as if wary of the reaction he might receive.

"No, I'm afraid there's not." Harry could hear the smile in Antonin's voice. "It is of no importance any more, Theo. I have loved the Lord for years and do not plan to stop, but I shall never stand in either his, or Mr Potter's way."

"I don't know… I've never seen a sign… You really believe they are lovers?"

"There is no doubt about it."

Harry released the Listening Charm. Antonin's reactions to some occurrences made much more sense in the light of this revelation, but it was obvious that the initial jealousy was gone. Harry wasn't afraid that Antonin would stab him in the back and neither was he afraid that the rumour of himself and Tom being together romantically would get out.

Hopefully, once the insanity would have consumed Harry's Tom, there would be at least two wizards protecting him anyway.

x

With the end of July near, Harry completely lost his appetite. Tom had to order him to eat; else he would have starved himself. He slept badly and woke to frequent nightmares. Horrific memories from his life in the future became more and more vivid with each passing night, and Harry began to dread sleep as such.

Tom was there to hold him through his post-nightmare shakes, but he wasn't helping much. Harry was used to dealing alone, and the company forced him to put on a calm façade; an emptiness that rapidly grew inside Harry's chest actively hurt when he was trying not to cry. He did a good job of pretending, too. Tom didn't need a snivelling kid to smear snot all over his night-shirt.

The realisation of what was happening came to him gradually. On the eve of July the twenty-eight Harry knew he was not staying here past his birthday. Whether he would just cease to exist or wake up in the future, on the first of August 1996 or 2000, or if there was another trip planned for him was anyone's guess, but it was going to be a world without Tom that was going to need a complete make-over, and Harry would be the one charged with it.

"_I wish you could tell me what ails you, Harry_," Tom whispered into the summer night, stroking Harry's hair, pushing the sweaty fringe out of Harry's eyes, tracing the lightning-bolt scar. "_I wish I could stop this, or at least make it easier for you_…"

Harry could think of nothing but how much he loved, loved, _loved_ Tom and how much they were going to miss each other. Tom kissed a stray tear away from his cheek.

"There's nothing, but… make love to me?"

And Tom did, ignoring the maudlin wording and putting Harry's need for escape before his preferences.

Harry stopped going to work completely. He sent Tom off every morning and spent the entire day closed in, trying to memorise what it felt like to have a home and a family – tiny, two-people family, but one he could always rely on – to the point when he was sick with cabin fever and had to go out onto the grounds. He walked around the orchard and the pond that technically belonged to them and came back at twilight, just in time to take the Daily Prophet from Tom's hands.

"Hogwarts Headmaster Albus Dumbledore!" he read the headline, and glanced at Tom to gauge his reaction.

"It was always going to happen," Tom said, resigned. "Sadly, this will result in sanctioned ostracising of all students with Dark or traditionalist background. They will learn that there is no justice in the world and, especially Slytherins, will take it as an invitation to a free for all."

Harry set the newspaper onto the table and sank into his chair. Tom was spot on in his prediction. In the seventies Dumbledore would encourage bigotry and bullying to the point when Severus Snape would fear for his life within the school. In the nineties Hogwarts was less of a school and more of a battleground of a cold war.

"Dumbledore brought down Grindelwald, people love him, there's no way to oust him out of the school and I doubt that it's possible to assassinate him." Harry knew that Tom realised all that, but saying that there was nothing they could do sounded too defeatist.

"You were going to Hogwarts for your first five years," Tom said with certainty. They had never talked about it, but Harry's familiarity with the castle spoke for itself. "Was he your Headmaster?"

Harry didn't reply. He shielded his mind but let Tom read him otherwise.

"How long, Harry?" Tom demanded. "Ten years? Twenty? Hundred?"

On the verge of bursting into tears, Harry stood up and fled the dining room. He took refuge in their bed, crawling under the duvet, and felt as if – for all the changes he seemed to have undergone – he had not really grown up a bit in the last four years. He was still in a way dependent on others, on Tom's followers, on Tom, on the home they had created together.

He hoped something would survive, that he wouldn't really be on his own if he returned to the future. That the people who made him into the Dark Lord's second would remember him.

A frame stood on the shelf, not empty anymore, holding a pencil-drawn sketch of Tom and Harry that moved, even if the two young men could not speak aloud. The picture was a present from Selena Abercrombie, who perhaps had a bit of a Seer in her, because she seemed to understand the nuances between Tom and Harry way too well for a casual acquaintance. He hoped she did have the Inner Eye, because she had drawn them older and still together.

For once in his life, Harry wanted to believe in divination.

In the morning, they ate breakfast in silence. Harry could think of no final gesture to mark his last day in the past, nothing he could give Tom, nothing he could say to him that hadn't already been said. He went with Tom to the meeting, the last one he was going to attend for decades, watched him curse the one idiot who still hadn't gotten the memo about Harry being above him in the proverbial food chain, and lay down sketchy plans for the organisation of Tom's political movement, including a vague idea of a Mark to distinguish the members.

Then they went home, Harry made love to Tom and concentrated on not crying afterwards. Once Tom had fallen asleep Harry wrote a short note and left it on the desk and fully dressed, holding his wand and keeping couple of things he refused to leave behind Shrunk in his pockets, went to sleep.


	3. The Note

Interlude: The Note

x

The room was a too quiet. Tom knew immediately that something was missing and it took him but three seconds and one small movement (with the intention not to wake his bed-mate) for him to realise what.

_Harry_ was gone.

A suddenly real fear that so far had always been hypothetical gripped him. Harry might have been in the bathroom, might have gone out… but… Tom couldn't feel him. The bond was stretched to the point of breaking and frozen in that state; the side that should have been Harry's faded into vacuum.

Tom curled up in a fetal position and shuddered. It _hurt_.

He already knew what had happened – he should have known before! He should have noticed the signs – the nightmares, the depression… He was alone, alone like he had been before Harry, like he had begun to believe he never would be again.

Harry was _gone_.

About an hour later, when he got used to his entire body aching (he would have to find a potion or a spell or a ritual to make that stop) he cautiously stood and staggered over to the table. Harry, who hadn't blinded himself to the signs, had left him a note – something to hold onto, a hope that the future wasn't as far away as it seemed at the moment.

_Tom,_

_As I am certain you have already put together, I have been removed from your time. Please, believe me, had there been any way I could have remained, I would have. I never wanted to leave you. I never betrayed you._

_The first thing I shall do, whenever I reappear, is find you and beg you to accept me back._

_Please, forgive me._

_With all my heart and soul,_

_Harry James Riddle_

Tom burnt the note. He couldn't look at the pleading words. It wasn't Harry's fault, and he would eradicate anyone and anything that might suggest otherwise. He had once thought he had no faith left, but now he believed, with his entire being, in Harry's devotion and loyalty, and he would die before he betrayed the one person that gave him more than he thought was possible to receive.


	4. The Present

Chapter Three: The Present

x

When Harry awoke, he was in a lot of pain – not Cruciatus level of pain, not even debilitating level, but enough that he barely felt it when his nails cut into his palms. He woke up in the same place, geographically, as he went to sleep, but the grass covered rubble was a far cry from the comfortable home he and Tom had had here. It brought tears into his eyes.

Lost. Gone. Destroyed.

He cursed himself for being emotional like a girl and lifted himself off the ground. Freshly twenty, with a valid (if a bit outdated) Apparition Licence in his pocket, he left the site and reappeared in the smallest bedroom at Nr 4 Private Drive.

The occasional bird outside chirped a lonely song, but it wasn't yet too long since the dawn. Harry took one look around himself and knew exactly what the date was – 1st of August 1996. None of his things were moved an inch, and the milk in the glass on the table he had poured himself four years ago was still good.

He gathered what of his possessions he wished to keep, and Apparated to the backyard of the Leaky Cauldron. He tapped the correct sequence and waited for the portal to open. His first stop was a news-stand, where he checked out the covers of the periodicals.

Since he didn't want anyone to notice how much he had changed until he was ready for the fallout, he leafed through a Witch Weekly magazine, found his most recent photo and based his glamour on that. Then he concluded that he should probably make himself look a bit thinner, after all that time with the Dursleys, and that he might as well add darker circles under his eyes and make his skin a little grey. The weeks leading up to his second trip through time-stream had been fairly shitty, and he wasn't feeling too hot right now, but even that hadn't messed him up as much as a month at the Dursleys would.

There. He looked a fright.

Sirius had become but a cherished memory some fifty-five years ago, but here the people who knew him expected him to grieve in a Gryffindorly fashion, so that was what he would give them. Faking depression was a cake, and it would be easier on everyone if he just avoided suspicion until he found a way to go and collect his husband.

With his looks taken care of and emergency strategy of confrontation decided on, Harry could continue his expedition.

His second stop was Gringotts – the start of his problems.

"You are not Harry James Potter," the teller told him directly, but handed the key back. "This is your key, but not your name. State your real name or leave!"

It was nice of the goblin not to cause a huge scene, even if the security he had called looked very menacing with their battle axes sharp and gleaming. There was a brief debate, during which Harry requested that the matter be dealt with in private, since it was confidential. As he was one of the richer clients, the concession was made for him and the teller led him to a nearby conference room. The seats were very low, but Harry had been taught by his fellow Slytherins that he looked exactly as out of place as he felt, and therefore managed to make himself fit even into this goblin-sized room simply by leaning back and making himself comfortable.

"May we have your explanation, then? That key has not been stolen, but you are not listed as its owner, whoever you are."

"That is easy enough," Harry replied, not even trying to act like a sixteen-year-old Gryffindor, for it would help him achieve nothing. "I used to be Harry James Potter, but I am married. My name is now Harry James Riddle."

The goblin's colour changed – Harry guessed it was approximately the same reaction as when a human paled. Nevertheless, he wasn't bothered. There were strict magic-enforced confidentiality laws all over Gringotts. What he disclosed would not get out of the room.

"Is that… as in… Tom Riddle?"

"Tom Marvolo Riddle is my husband," Harry admitted. Soon, hopefully in less than a month, the whole world would know. If they all reacted like this creature in front of him, he might just laugh himself to death. "I do have a copy of the document on myself…"

The goblin reached out, and Harry passed the parchment to him. His eyes bugged out as he saw the date.

"Ah… that explains that… If I may ask, Mr Riddle, where do you stand in the current conflict?"

Harry was momentarily stunned by the address. No one except Tom called him Mr Riddle. It sounded foreign to him… but, nonetheless, true.

"I intend to defuse the Death Eaters as they exist now before the start of the next school-year. However, I will then oppose Dumbledore and eventually attempt to reform the Ministry, as we meant to do from the start."

The goblin gave him a toothy grin. "Ah, a music for my old ears – war! I do not have the authority to promise you anything, Mr Riddle, but I shall inform my superiors and propose an alliance. At the very least, your gold and your secrets are always safe here." He paused, pressed in a panel of the wall, and turned to the door. "I have called someone to take you to your vault. Before you go, however, I need you to sign these."

He pushed two rolls of parchment at Harry, who read through them at his leisure, disregarding that there were at least two busy goblins waiting on him. The first document was his statement about the name change, which he filled in and returned. The other was the receipt of his inheritance of the collective Black assets.

Harry signed.

An hour later, Harry James Riddle, one of the two richest people in Great Britain, went shopping. During the year he had lived with Tom, he had become accustomed to a certain level of comfort, which neither the Dursleys nor Dumbledore could provide. It was in the small things – the cut of his clothes, the type of his boots, access to potions, ingredients, weapons and books…

When the Potter, Black and Slytherin estates were merged together, with a not insignificant boost from the liquefied previously muggle Riddle estate, the two Mr Riddles as the joint owners of all that wealth became the most influential patrons of Gringotts. The world at large didn't know about it yet, but the goblins were likely to eat from Harry's palm.

Eventually satisfied with his purchases and having selected a suitable property, one that had previously belonged to the Blacks, Harry left Diagon and Knockturn Alleys behind.

x

The morning of August the 2nd, Harry was roused by insistent knocking on the window. He let Hedwig in, almost absently dispelling the knot of Tracing and Tracking spells on her, confident that the ancient Black blood wards had stopped the signal from transmitting. He would not be found by anybody he didn't want to find him.

"How have you been, girl?" he asked, chuckling when the owl rolled her eyes at him. Sure, it had been less than two days for her. He untied the letter from her leg, for once escaping her claws and beak unscathed, and opened it.

_Dear Harry_, read Hermione's neat script, _I hope that you are alright, wherever you are. Please, come back! We understand that you wanted away from the Dursleys as soon as you were legally able to leave, but we are worried. Will you come and stay with us at You Know Where? Please!_

Harry smiled, tracing the lines. Hermione was sixteen – almost seventeen – and the letter mirrored her personality perfectly. It would have been a pity if she got mixed up in the war and died, fighting some Gryffindor battle…

Harry resolved to do what he could to protect the people who had been kind to him – Hermione, the Weasleys, Lupin and Tonks… He needed to warn them.

_We have all got our O.W.L. results, but the Headmaster is keeping yours with him and won't let us see! I suppose it's right of him but – you know me – I'm so curious! If you need anyone to pick you up, just let us know where you are. Use a code so we know it's really you ad not a trap._

_Hermione_

_PS: Dumbledore said there was some unusual reading from the wards around Number 4. He asked me to ask you if you have any idea what it was, but I got the strange feeling that he knows something he's not telling us._

_Gosh, just come back!_

When asked so nicely, what could Harry do but obey?

He materialised in the Black Library, by chance behind the back of one Hermione Granger, who was currently absorbed in a book and looking not a day older than when he had last seen her.

She jumped and opened her mouth to scream, but Harry struck her with a well-timed 'Silencio'. When she recognised him and closed her mouth, he cancelled the spell, barely having time to catch her when she threw herself at him.

"Oh Harry! We've been so worried! Why did you disappear like that? Where did you go? Were you safe? You mustn't do magic, you'll be expel-"

She was struck mute when Harry hit her with another Silencer.

"I've done nothing against the law, Hermione," he said calmly.

She scowled at him, but took his word, he suspected mostly because she could not argue anyway.

"I've been relatively safe, but a lot of _stuff_-" he grimaced at the word, "-has happened. First and foremost: gather Ron and any of his siblings that are here, Tonks and Lupin. Don't tell anyone else about me, especially not Dumbledore. Don't ask me anything until we're all gathered here. Okay?"

She seemed to be angry at him, but she did acquiesce, and Harry hugged her briefly to placate her before he sent her out, dispelling the second Silencer and hoping that she wouldn't break his trust.

Hermione returned ten minutes later, dragging Ron, followed by Ginny, Bill and Tonks. Consulting the wards, Harry ascertained that Hermione hadn't spoken with anyone else. Nevertheless, to prevent unpleasant surprises, Harry ordered the house to hermetically seal the library.

"Hello," he spoke, cutting off Ron's muffled rant. He lifted his eyebrow at the wands Bill and Tonks reflexively aimed at him.

Ginny squealed and attempted to hug him to death (she must have inherited that urge from her mother). It reminded Harry harshly of just why he preferred the company of Slytherins. Still, he was supposed to care for these people. He guessed he did.

"About time you showed up," Bill commented. "You drove a few of us up the wall with that disappearing act you pulled."

"Told you he was just feeling rebellious – weren't you, Harry?" Tonks grinned.

"I would've gone with you, mate," Ron grumbled. "It's a loony bin here."

"I came to warn you," Harry said in his 'adult' voice, devoid of emotion but heavy with implications.

Bill and Tonks were the only ones who recognised the danger, and Harry with faint regret realised that the following conversation would be conducted over the kids' heads.

"Why us?" Bill asked with unnatural calm that one attained only after years of training and repeated near-death experiences.

Harry met the eldest Weasley brother's eyes. "I'm going out on a limb here and assuming I can trust you."

Hermione, Ron and Ginny began to protest loudly, but the three adults ignored them.

"Okay, Harry," Tonks said warily, "What's going on?"

Harry closed his eyes and mentally addressed a plea to Salazar. "Dumbledore's going down," he said forcefully, leaving no doubts about his support for the movement. "Distance yourself from him. If you're asked to go to battle, refuse."

Bill and Tonks looked at each other, both frowning, worried, uncertain. They both knew Harry, if only briefly, and he had given them reasons to believe his words, but they knew Dumbledore better and had been taught to trust him since their infancy.

"Is that a joke, mate?"

"I don't get what you mean-"

"Harry, Professor Dumbledore is your Headmaster-"

"Look," Harry cut off the protests, "you can't change it, no matter what you do. I'd rather not bury any of my friends."

Bill, Tonks and, surprisingly, Ginny were giving him the grimmest trio of looks he ever remembered facing. Hermione was staring at him, trying to work out just what kind of trick he was pulling. Ron's expression was, for once, inscrutable. He might have been out of it just as well as he might have been contemplating the consequences of the white queen playing for the black.

"Warn anyone you trust, but do not say it was I who told you to stay away." Harry slunk between the frozen wizards and witches. The door opened for him without his intervention, and he decided he liked it. Grimmauld Place apparently accepted him as its new owner.

"Harry! Wait!" Hermione called after him, but he continued downstairs, without looking back or pausing. He didn't feel like answering another barrage of questions. These people were a part of his past and he honoured their friendship, but he by no means was he under an obligation to go to great lengths to maintain it. He was a married man and his primary loyalty was to his husband.

Speaking of which, Dumbledore would recognise him immediately. The old man was one of the few with enough information, drive and cunning to piece the facts together. The Dark could not afford to have him disclosing crucial secrets to just anyone…

Harry came to a halt under the arch between the hall and the corridor leading to the kitchen. Since the staircase was connected to that corridor rather than to the hall itself, no matter which room in the house one wanted to reach, they would have to cross this spot.

Harry put the tip of his wand to the wall and concentrated. He didn't often resort to Dark spells, but they had their uses, and to set a trap for Dumbledore he needed something really high-level. This was what he and Tom had cast on the gateway to the ballroom Tom used as his throne chamber.

"Dark Arts! Dark Arts back in the House of Black!" the portrait of Sirius's deranged mother whom Harry knew much better than he had ever intended to, yelled gleefully from between the open mouldy curtains.

Harry finished the spell and tied it to Dumbledore specifically. Then he turned around, aimed his wand straight at the portrait and drawled: "Walburga, sweetcheeks, trust me, I have a way to keep your mouth shut for you. Permanently."

The group from the library had finally caught up to him and gathered at the foot of the stairs, right in front of Harry, blocking out his view of the picture.

"Kid," Bill muttered, throwing a nervous glance over his shoulder to the silent painting, "you can't just drop a bombshell like that on us and disappear-"

"What _the fuck_ is going on?" Tonks hissed. Her hair was a vivid mix of yellow and orange colours, and her eyes literally flashed red.

Harry glowered at Tonks and Bill in turns. "If I belong to a group that wants Dumbledore away, do you really think I'd tell you anything? What I've given you so far already constitutes a betrayal!"

"I get that you mean well, kid," Bill said, "but I won't stop fighting You Know Who on your say so."

"Don't get stupidly killed," Harry retorted.

"Right back at you."

Realising that they wouldn't get anything else from him, Tonks and Bill left – Harry suspected that Bill had gone to pass the warning onto the rest of his family, Tonks to find and inform Lupin.

Ron, Hermione and Ginny demanded his attention still, but it was easier to disregard them and continue the conversation with Walburga's imprint. He had yet to decide whether he would destroy it or somehow make it remain silent.

"You are… you're _the_ Harry Potter…" Walburga gasped. Ironically enough, this time the emphasised 'the' didn't mean the Boy Who Lived, even though it sounded exactly the same.

"The very one," Harry replied tonelessly, meeting the woman's eyes.

She knelt in her canvas and spread her hands in submission. "Forgive me, my Lord. I have sworn loyalty."

"Loyalty? Lord?" Hermione looked from Walburga to Harry. "Lord Black? You're the new Lord Black?"

Harry glared at Walburga's portrait so hard it was a wonder the painting didn't ignite. She nodded, unnoticed by anyone but Harry, to show her understanding.

"I am," Harry admitted. "Sirius left me almost everything. Couple of things went to Remus, I suspect."

"Still, it's odd," Ginny remarked, worrying her lip. "I mean, she never listened to Sirius while he was Lord Black…"

Walburga couldn't keep the giggle in, earning herself another glare from Harry, which made her go pale.

"M-my son…" she said in a trembling voice, "n-never had the n-necessary qualities…"

"Whatever," Harry shrugged it off. "I'll have to get going. I'll see you in a couple of weeks."

"But, Harry!"

He was just considering how to best pass through the obstacle of Ron, Hermione and Ginny without harming either of them, when the wards warned him of an approaching undesirable presence. Harry quickly walked away from the trio, deeper into the house (finding himself on the receiving end of three very befuddled looks) and stopped in front of the kitchen. He could Apparate, since he was keyed into the wards as the owner of the house, but he first wanted to make sure that Dumbledore _was_ bound by the specific confidentiality ward he had set up.

The old coot rang the bell.

Walburga opened her mouth to screech, but wisely shut it again and pressed herself as close to the frame as she possibly could.

Hermione went to open the door, while the rest of the current occupants of the house – Hestia Jones, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Elphias Doge and a staggering Dung Fletcher – met at the bottom of the stairs in their haste to open the door and shut up the wailing that somehow wasn't starting. Walburga took them by surprise when she kept smirking at them and examining her nails instead of ranting and raving.

"Good morning! Good morning!" Dumbledore's jolly voice resounded, drowning out the mumbled conversations of the crowd. Hermione tried to speak (Harry sincerely hoped it wasn't about the rigged archway) but everybody ignored her, so she huffed, folded her arms, leant against the antique cabinet and watched the Pandemonium with a glacial expression that reminded Harry of Druella Rosier.

"Harry?"

Tearing himself from the quartet of the Order members, Dumbledore purposely strode towards Harry, who gazed at him expectantly. Just a moment now, just two more steps… don't let him notice… one step…

"Mr Potter…"

A flash of light signified the activation of the ward and Dumbledore froze, staring upwards at the arch. Slowly, Harry moved forth, aware of the weight of nine pairs of eyes on him.

"What have you done, Mr Potter?" Dumbledore asked in an empty voice, just barely clinging to the façade of a benevolent Grandfather.

"Outsmarted you," Harry replied unrepentantly, fortifying his Occlumentic shields against the Legilimentic attack Dumbledore had launched at his mind as soon as their eyes met. "Salazar! I can't believe I finally caught you!"

Harry laughed. Tom was going to be so proud… and jealous that he didn't get to see the old coot's expression.

Dumbledore reached for his wand.

Harry was faster on the draw. "You are forgetting, _Mr_ Dumbledore; you are in my house and you are no longer my teacher, or my Headmaster."

"Harry?"

Not looking away from Dumbledore for a second, Harry answered: "No, Hermione, I'm not returning to Hogwarts."

The Headmaster took advantage of Harry's split attention and raised his wand. The house itself raised a shimmering light blue protective barrier between Harry and the guests.

"That's why you could do magic!" Hermione exclaimed. "You quit school… Harry, you can't!"

"I am not returning to Hogwarts," Harry repeated and quickly turned away from her and to Dumbledore, because he noticed the tell-tale twinkle in the old man's eyes.

"Ever?" the wizard asked. It was a feeble attempt on extracting an oath. A third-year Slytherin probably could have done better.

"Not as a student," Harry specified and resolved to ignore Dumbledore, because he honestly wasn't sure if he would not forget himself and agree to something he didn't want.

"So that was why you helped-"

Dumbledore's brows furrowed in frustration. The ward had stopped him from completing his query, but Harry understood what he wanted to say: that was why he had helped Hagrid.

"He's my friend," Harry responded simply and left it at that.

"And _he_ is what?" Dumbledore demanded. This time the 'he' meant Tom, or Voldemort, as the case might have been.

Harry didn't feel the least bit inclined to share his feelings on the matter with anyone but Tom himself. "You'll see. Farewell, my _friends_."

With that final statement, Harry Disapparated.

x

In the evening of the next day Harry decided that he had procrastinated long enough and it was time for him to nab some Death Eater and get to Voldemort. Knowing Tom, the creature he had turned into had created more Horcruxes, and Harry would have to pull them together if he was to have a chance on making his husband passably human. For that, he would need a powerful Neutral focus.

Once again he Apparated into the backyard of the Leaky Cauldron. At a glance, he outdid Lucius Malfoy in the sartorial department – picture-perfectly traditional, like any proper pureblood wizard should strive to be. It was not even hypocritical of him; he knew nothing of fashion and deferred completely to Tom and several of their most trusted associates when it came to choice of clothing for himself, only stipulated that he required freedom of motion. Today he wore the outfit similar to what he used to dress in for meetings of the Dark Order in the past: black trousers and a doublet, with the collar and cuffs of a dark green tunic underneath visible, leather boots and a leather tie keeping about half of his hair mock-tamed at his nape. To avoid displaying his weapons to the nosy by-passers, he donned a simple black cape and a Cooling Charm.

Feeling like himself for once, despite his glamour making him look sixteen, Harry walked into Ollivander's.

"How may I help you-" Ollivander fell silent and examined Harry closely. "Oh my. I don't suppose you are here for a new wand, Mr Potter."

"The old one is satisfactory," Harry replied, wondering just how much the creepy man knew.

"I hope so… how may I help you, then?"

It was gratifying to see the same wizard who so enjoyed making his customers nervous virtually quivering with jitters. He apparently wanted Harry out of his shop as soon as possible, but either hoped to keep the business or was too scared to throw him out.

"I seek a Neutral focus for a non-harmful soul-magic ritual," Harry said. "I think either holly or yew twig ought to do the trick. Might you have some raw materials you would be willing to sell?"

"I have both holly and yew, but you would probably prefer ash, unless you are dealing with resurrection-"

"No!" Harry denied forcefully. "No resurrection. A perfectly legal, non-harmful bit of soul-magic. I can understand if you can't think of anything matching that description, but this hasn't actually been done before." He shut up before he said more than he wanted to, and let Ollivander think for a while.

"Yes, I think ash would be best. Give me a minute and I will bring you a branch."

Five minutes later Harry made his purchase, and Ollivander heaved a sigh of relief as the front door closed behind his customer.

Harry thought he must have looked like a loony druid, walking down Diagon Alley with four feet of raw ash stick in his hand. It still had small twigs on it and certainly didn't make for the most impressive sight. Despite the lack of awe it inspired, Harry intended to carry it with him through the Leaky Cauldron as it was; he didn't dare Shrink it for fear that any spells cast on it would alter its magical properties.

The bar was full but Tom the innkeeper noticed him immediately. His eyes widened almost comically, and he frenetically waved Harry toward the stairs leading up to the bedrooms. Harry's attention was thus effectively captured, so he walked over there, sat on the third stair, enjoyed a bit of a shadow and waited.

The innkeeper joined him a while later, grinning from ear to ear and cheerfully jingling a circle of keys.

"Ah, Mr Potter!" he greeted, keeping his voice down. "Do come up."

"Hello, Tom," Harry replied, masking his surprise at the immediate recognition and, dare he say it, friendliness. Either Tom had Aurors waiting in some warded corner, or there were Death Eaters ready to pay a pretty sum for information directly leading to the capture of the Boy Who Lived.

The innkeeper offered a shallow bow, just pro forma, and gestured to the torch-lit upstairs. "There's a gentleman in Number Eleven who's been waiting for you for a few days. Would it be alright if I took you there?"

Harry was confident that he could stand his ground against anyone except Dumbledore and Voldemort personally, neither of whom was likely to rent a room at the Leaky Cauldron and wait for Harry to spontaneously turn up, so he consented. "Can I just grab a butterbeer first?"

"I'll get you one," Tom said resolutely.

Harry watched the toothless man vanish in the kitchen and shook his head. It was quite incredible how much that cheeky eleven-year-old so excited about getting his Hogwarts letter had aged.

He walked on alone, knowing the way to room Eleven quite well. He pulled out his wand and knocked on the door.

"Wait a moment!" a gruff voice insisted.

Said moment took half a minute, and it so happened that the door opened at the same time as Tom walked up to Harry.

As opposed to when Harry had stayed in the room, it was now boarded up and dark. Candles on the desk lit a sphere around the table, including the face of the man who was sitting in the chair and watching Harry with unabashed curiosity. Time had changed him too, but he was still recognisable.

Now, Harry's question was: did the innkeeper know more than would be expected, or was this an attempt to sell the Boy Who Lived out to the Death Eaters?

"Tom?" Harry questioned softly, compulsively fingering the handle of his wand.

"My memory serves me well, Mr Potter," the man replied with another sincere grin, "an' although neither my Lady Mother not myself ever pledged allegiance, you do have our support. May we see Mr Riddle again as he once was."

Harry was stumped. Tom had been just a little kid. How could he have remembered?

"I thought you were…"

"Dumbledore's?" the innkeeper attempted to lift one eyebrow, but ended up just scrunching his face.

Harry guessed it was a domain of the Slytherins and, although he wasn't sure, he thought Tom Dodderidge had been a Hufflepuff.

"Hardly," Tom said, waving his hand. "It's an easy misconception, sure. I _am_ a Light wizard. I'm not the only one, either. Amos Diggory comes to have a shot o' rum every Friday after work. We talk of ol' times – of his father's friends, ee gee."

Indeed, Harry remembered Elijah Diggory well. He also remembered Cedric well, and cursed fate, himself and all the impossible circumstances that lead to that stupid, vain, _wasteful_ death.

"Thank you," he said, returning to the present in his mind. "I hope your faith in me won't be disappointed."

Tom pressed the bottle of butterbeer into Harry's hand, asking no money, and walked away without a word.

Harry and the occupant of the room remained alone.

"You know who I am," Harry said, forgoing the name in case someone was listening behind the thin plank walls.

"As if I could ever forget," the Death Eater replied with a smile. His eyes glistened.

Harry found himself smiling as well. "Do you have a portkey?"

They were undoubtedly going to a safe place, and such could not be reached by Apparition, and if they used the Floo Network, their names and destination would have been marked on the log.

"Straight to the Nott Manor," the man replied. "Theodore is no longer alive, but his son and his son's son do his legacy proud."

Harry tried to recall Theodore Nott the Third. He was a quiet, intelligent boy with good marks, no friends and a tendency to avoid unnecessary conflicts. He did not seem to have inherited much from his grandfather, although, admittedly, he was a Slytherin, and Gryffindor Harry had not paid much attention to his classmates. He resolved to let young Theodore be a surprise.

A little of that hardheaded Gryffindor was still left in Harry, apparently, because he decided that it would be a good idea to trust the Death Eater that had once been one of his closest – his _only_ – friends, and accept the Portkey. Not a week ago he had been on the verge of crying over all that he feared losing in his time-skip, and here was a chance to regain some of that. Harry had never been disinclined to taking risks, especially if the potential reward was so tempting.

"Very well," he lied. "Let us go, then, somewhere we may speak freely. I trust Mr Dodderidge, but these walls are not earless." 


	5. Reunion

Chapter Four: Reunion

x

It was going a little too fast, but as a wiser man had already observed, no plan ever survived the first contact with the enemy.

They appeared in a familiar darkened hall. From his spot, Harry could just see the door to the ballroom where Tom had once conducted his meetings – quite possibly he was still using it. Harry detected his own enchantments on the walls, the wards that he had woven in tandem with Tom. The knowledge that it had happened a year ago and fifty years ago disoriented him.

A house elf popped in. Its eyes widened as it spotted Harry. It bowed hastily, and Harry gladly handed over his cloak.

He was about to request directions to Tom, when a Portkey deposited a pair of Death Eaters nearby. It was just Harry's damnable luck that they were Malfoys.

"Narcissa," Harry's guide said in lieu of greeting. "Young Draco."

"Sir-" the smallest Malfoy began, but his manners were lost as soon as he caught sight of Harry. "Potter! What is he doing here? Why isn't he bound?"

"Antonin," Harry warned when the man scowled at Draco. "He is but a child. A stupid one, certainly, but the welcome is not different from what I have expected. There is much to explain and we need not a Lucius Malfoy in snit on top of it."

Dolohov laughed and Harry smirked at the sputtering Malfoy. He caught Narcissa's eye and she hesitated, but eventually curtsied.

"My Lady Mother and Aunt Walburga told me about Mr Potter when I was a child," she explained, "although I have never before made the connection. I apologise…"

"It is of no consequence," Harry said, shaking his head. He caught Antonin's attention and with a gesture instructed him to be on guard. Then he concentrated and gradually unwove the glamour.

Draco's awed gasp was thoroughly satisfying.

"My Lord…" Antonin whispered, bowing.

Harry could see the relief and genuine happiness in his expression. It was the highest time Voldemort was stopped and Tom returned to them both – to the two men who truly loved him.

"I told you it was Mr Potter to you," Harry corrected, drawing perverse amusement from the fact that Narcissa offhandedly Silenced her son to keep him from making a scene.

"That was a very long time ago, my Lord," Antonin pointed out.

Harry conceded that. His sense of time was severely skewed and he could accept being called a 'Lord' easily. From Antonin – a seventy-something battle-hardened wizard – it was incredibly flattering.

"Who of the original Order survives still?" Harry asked, ignoring the two Malfoys lest he succumb to laughter.

"Thorfin Rowle, Aurelius Avery, Vulcan Mulciber, Tybalt Lestrange…" Antonin counted off. "I'm afraid that is all since Lucretia's passing."

"Lucretia was not a member of the original Order, Antonin," Harry corrected. "She was useless to us back then."

Narcissa took a harsh breath – perhaps Lucretia's general uselessness was something that contradicted her mother's stories – but the fact was that Lucretia didn't even finish school and all her shallow ambitions went out of the window after her parents signed her marriage contract. Harry wasn't certain he even wanted to know what prompted her admission into the Dark Order later on, in the event that she had actually ever been Marked.

"It… was a long time ago, My Lord," Antonin repeated uncertainly, tense, as if he expected instant retribution.

Harry regretted that Tom's condition had deteriorated so far that he terrorised his own people. The subtle flinch when Harry lifted his hand in a gesture intended to placate the man was both a proof of how bad the situation was and an explanation for Antonin's desire to meet Harry. This was a silent plea to make a change, to help the Death Eaters who had once been but freedom fighters and never intended to be party to torture and mass-murder and attempted genocide.

Antonin believed that Harry, by virtue of his mere presence, could make everything right again.

"No need to apologise," Harry said. He felt he should have been the one apologising. "The memories that are vivid to me must be all but faded to you."

Narcissa was rapidly whispering to Draco at this point, a steady flow of instruction that was necessary to prevent the boy from making an even bigger idiot out of himself. With a bit of luck, she would have a chance to warn her husband as well, and Malfoys would be converted into Harry's bootlickers rather than dead opposition.

"I am not young anymore," Antonin stated glumly.

Harry regretted that a bit. It had been unfair of him to ask this man – his friend for all intents and purposes – to sacrifice the better part of his life for someone who was not really there to appreciate it. He resolved to reward Antonin as best as he could after the skirmish was over.

"No, you are not," he admitted. "But your experience matches Tom's and you have never had an anchorless bond drag you into insanity," he said with a bitter smile. Tom must have suffered a lot. Harry recalled how much the bond had ached before it found his husband's warped presence in this time and settled a bit. Tom must have gone through that for much longer before he had found something to take away the pain. Salazar only knew what he had done to himself to survive.

Harry returned to present to find that Antonin was as good as gaping at him – his eyes were wide and his jaw had gone a little slack.

Narcissa, for a change, failed to follow the conversation. Harry didn't care a whit.

"How…" Antonin rubbed his forehead. "My Lord? You…"

"Indeed."

Harry's bitter smile turned into a much softer one, and he stepped forwards to survey himself in a decorative mirror. He looked a bit older than he actually was – he appeared to be in his early twenties. He was also taller, though far from matching Antonin's formidable height. His mock-tamed hair wasn't nearly tamed enough to display his scar, which was exactly as he wished it. Without his glasses and armed with two knives and several throwing stars he was barely recognisable.

Antonin huffed a breathless laugh, quite reminiscent of Tom for a moment, and smiled. "May I offer my congratulations… if somewhat belated?"

"Thank you," Harry said, deeming his appearance satisfactory. "Now take me to Tom. It is time we returned onto the way we have lost."

Leaving Narcissa where she was with the fool's hope that she would deal with her unmanageable sprog, the wizened Death Eater pulled up his sleeve and bared his Dark Mark. The heavy double-winged door recognised him and opened with a groan of strained hinges.

The meeting had already started. Harry strode in through the middle of the room to the throne, unrepentantly pushing Death Eaters out of his way with magic. Antonin, Narcissa and Draco hid themselves in the sea of black to avoid attracting attention and getting hurt in the process.

Harry managed to break the front row before he was recognised. The yells of 'Potter!' echoed in the room and Death Eaters brandished their wands, some going as far as to attempt and cast curses at Harry, before a shock wave passed through the room.

It affected everything except Harry himself.

Harry raised his head and met Voldemort's narrowed red eyes.

Confounded, the crowd of black-robed wizards and witches climbed to their feet, shrinking as far away from their Master as they could without trampling over each other. Seeing that neither Harry nor Voldemort moved or spoke, the Death Eaters also remained silent and motionless, waiting for some indication about what to do if attacking the Boy Who Lived obviously was not the correct reaction.

Or at least most of them did.

Bellatrix was too insane to act rationally. She escaped her husband's attempt to restrain her and leapt at Harry with her hood thrown back and crazy grin in place. "Die, Potter!"

Harry dodged. "Close…" he muttered, "but fundamentally incorrect."

He lifted the ash branch and struck the floor with its end as if it were a staff. He hoped it would work, because if it didn't they had huge problems. "My name is Harry James _Riddle_ and I call upon the soul of my bonded, the soul once pledged to me!"

The ballroom froze in a tableau of shock. A familiar silver-gold-coppery light filled the room and Harry became aware of his magic reaching out in five ultimate Summoning Charms. Nagini twisted and withered and Voldemort's face lost its snake-like features. A diadem crashed into the floor and melted in a puddle of silver; a goblet joined it, making for a slightly bigger puddle of gold. Voldemort's skin rippled, similarly to the effect of Polyjuice Potion, and his appearance briefly steadied – waxy, distorted, but much more like a human. His eyes were no longer red, only bloodshot.

Someone screamed, but Harry refused to look away from the regressing form of the man he had sworn himself to. He stonily observed the metamorphosis.

Tom began to shake in a way eerily like the effects of Cruciatus. He didn't make a sound.

Harry registered the vague shapes of a ring and a pendant before they were destroyed by the furnace in the centre of the bastardised ritual, taking years and 'enhancements' away from Tom's face and body. The Dark Lord grew shorter than the frame he had created for himself, and finally there was nothing abnormal about his appearance anymore. His eyes were shadowed but blue again. Since his first Horcrux had been destroyed and those years could not be recovered he seemed older than he had been when Harry had seen him last, but he was still beautiful.

The ash turned to ash.

"Harry?" Tom asked. His voice had reverted to the familiar one Harry knew almost better than his own, dissimilar to the high-pitched tone of Voldemort's speech.

"Tom?" Harry returned.

Seemingly effortlessly, hiding all the pain from the transformation he must have been feeling, the Dark Lord conjured a ball of fire and flung it at Harry.

Harry raised his hand, caught the flame and held it in his palm. It didn't burn. Tom's magic was his magic.

Tom met his eyes. He kept his face blank, but Legilimentically and through the bond he conveyed the mixture of emotions he was holding inside. Longing, relief and lingering ache were prevalent.

"Forgive me," he said quietly, probably nearly giving half of his army heart-attacks. "I had to be certain."

Harry undid the fireball and approached Tom, who stood up to meet him. Harry felt his eyes well, thinking of how much his husband had to go through without him. He blinked furiously to quash the tears.

"I understand," he said, although he was not sure whether the test was supposed to confirm his identity, confirm the continued existence of the bond, or if it was an unsuccessful attempt to punish him. "Forgive _me_-"

Tom caught his elbows, stopping him from sinking to his knees. "Never kneel before me!" he exclaimed angrily, eliciting sounds of surprise from those parts of their audience that hadn't been shocked into stupor yet. "You are my husband, not my servant! You always have been and always shall be my equal!"

Harry closed his eyes, and for a moment simply soaked up the familiar yet rather unusually discomfiting presence. He could feel that Tom wished for nothing more than to soak in Harry in return, to relax for a while and do nothing except convince himself that _this_ was real and he wasn't fighting alone against the world anymore.

"_So you do not hate me_," Harry hissed.

Tom let go of him, and Harry moved to stand behind the throne in a semi-shadowed spot. It didn't make him nearly as inconspicuous as he would have liked to be, but he couldn't bring himself to put a greater distance between himself and Tom.

"_I could never_." Tom replied in kind, surveying the derangement that remained of his followers. "_Neither of us in any way compromised his promises_."

"_We might have been able to realise what was going to happen, but there was no precedent, Tom_," Harry said, "_If one of us died, the other would either follow or be freed of the bond. I didn't die, however… and the lack of anchor caused your descent into madness. I could apologise, but it would be empty words_."

In hindsight Harry realised that Tom had known all that. Tom had not begun to hate him after his departure, had not blamed him. If Harry hadn't been certain of it before, this would have made obvious just how much his husband loved him.

"Dumbledore's days are numbered," Harry said intentionally in English, because he wished for the Death Eaters to hear it as well. He switched to Parseltongue for the next statement: "_This time we're doing it my way. First thing we'll have to do is a cleansing ritual. I won't sleep anywhere near you, not to speak about sleeping with you, while you reek of Dark Arts_…"

A group of people to whom this turn of events was slightly less jarring than to the rest began to form a kneeling line in front of the throne. There was Antonin, next to him Theodore Nott the Second and Theodore Nott the Third, Rowle, Selwynn, Aurelius Avery, Tybalt Lestrange and his two sons, Narcissa Malfoy, dragging her son with her, and couple of other people Harry didn't even recognise. The rest, however…

"Maybe not," he amended, staring skeptically at the foaming Bellatrix. "Maybe as the very first thing you'll have to deal with your followers_. Some of them will have to be disposed of_."

Tom felt no real regret about the proposed death of some of his people. He only grieved the loss of the decades he had wasted in insanity and that the circumstances forced him to be parted with the one person that had any chance of reaching him. In a way he was suddenly a virtual stranger to Harry, except that they still had their mind-link, according to which Tom had not perceptibly changed in half a century.

Harry, as opposed to his husband, was loath to kill, especially his own people, but he didn't see a way around it.

"_Some of them are children of parents too closely related_," Tom observed. "_A few were perhaps tortured past the brink of insanity, but some were born slightly deranged_."

"_The dredges of the society_," Harry summed up. "_With their propaganda, there is no wonder the rest of the world thinks you stand for blood purity_."

It was only starting and it was already a mess.

"_Finite Incantatum_!" some enterprising soul shouted.

There was a brief silence, but when nothing changed and the realisation that their Lord was bonded to a wizard that might or might not have been Harry Potter began to penetrate, anarchy started.

Aware that the meeting was shot to Hell, Tom cast a couple of Cruciatus Curses on the most vocal Death Eaters, clearing any doubts about him being still the Dark Lord, regardless of his altered appearance, and sent the followers home. Bellatrix, the loudest of them all by far, was still twitching on the floor with saliva dripping off her cheek onto the granite.

Harry had been searching the crowd for Severus Snape, with the intention to either have him swear an oath of non-disclosure of the recent events or Obliviate him, but it turned out that the man wasn't there. Allegedly (going on Apollonia Greengrass' word) Snape was attending a Potions Guild conference somewhere on the continent. Harry found that excuse easy to believe, but it presented an unexpected complication. Snape could turn up any day, come into contact with any of the wizards and witches that were present at the great revelation, and the wards on the hall were not geared toward complete inability to communicate information. Whoever might have been able to guide an outsider to believe that Harry Potter had turned Dark, and some of those people would be quick to bring their worries straight to Dumbledore.

Speaking of Dumbledore, Harry was not looking forward to explaining to Tom just how much the old coot knew. Hopefully, the recounting of how Harry had trapped the geezer would go a long way in lifting their mood.

Narcissa Malfoy remained behind. She requested a chance to pledge her continued loyalty to both Tom and Harry, regardless of recent events. Draco, on the other hand, wasn't nearly as accepting. He never stopped petulantly scowling, and bowed only after Narcissa aimed her wand at him. The witch sneered at her son, quite obvious in her disapproval, and Harry thought that perhaps Lucius's incarceration would become a much needed eye-opening experience for the boy.

Narcissa, thoroughly exasperated, kicked Draco's ankle.

The boy squealed.

Harry noticed Tom rubbing his temple and wished that the Malfoys would leave.

Narcissa leaned down and whispered into Draco's ear.

"He is _what_?"

"The Dark Lord's husband, dear," the woman repeated patiently.

Draco's eyes widened and a moment later he fainted. His reaction was even better than the goblin teller's, except that Tom was going to have a huge headache very soon.

"Theodore!" Harry called, rapidly taking control of the situation. The two Notts approached, each having just enough time for a quick bow before Harry spoke again: "See the Malfoys to the gates – assist Narcissa if the little ponce isn't able to walk on his own. I don't suppose the Green Suite in the Western Wing is available?"

"It is… sir…" the older Nott replied, uncertain of how to address Harry.

"We'll be there. Do not disturb us unless there is a desperate emergency. Antonin?"

The man pulled off his hood and inclined his head to indicate that he was listening.

"Find copies of the original Memorandum. We're going to rework it and start a huge campaign. Include anyone you need. Approach the Lovegoods in my name. Xenocrates and I used to have an alliance – there's a chance his son knows about it. We'll need a printer."

"Yes, my Lord."

"Perfect. Now go!" Harry ordered the huddle of hooded Death Eaters that were waiting for a chance to ask questions, or speak, or renew their vows of allegiance or some such. Tom and Harry were both drained, the former hurting on top of that, the latter frustrated. The sooner they had some privacy, the less likely it was that they would be driven to homicide.

The boot-lickers finally got the hint and scattered.

Harry shut the heavy door behind the last one, taking care to do so quietly, and descended from the dais to check on Bellatrix. She was still twitching, although she had lost consciousness in the meantime. The sight filled him with a mixture of pity and contempt – although, admittedly, contempt was prevalent.

"This is so fucked up."

"_Tom_…" Harry hissed. He wanted to take the man into his arms, to kiss him and hold him close so they could reassure each other of their presence, but the tendrils of Dark magic under Tom's skin nauseated him. He stayed where he was, hoping at the same time that Tom would come closer, and that he would not.

"Should I kill her?" Tom asked. It was sad to see him so confused, so tired, but at the same time Harry treasured the trust it implied.

"Don't." Putting the madwoman down would have been merciful, perhaps, but Harry had plans for Bellatrix, and Tom did not need to do any more Dark spells before the cleansing ritual. It was going to be excruciating as it was.

Tom stood above the witch's body, prodded it with his foot and sighed. "She used to be quite stunning – powerful, vicious, noble… Reducing her to this…"

Tom probably blamed himself, but they had no time and energy to expand on useless guilt trips. What had happened, had happened. It was done. They had to move on and do the best they could.

"Please tell me you haven't slept with her," Harry grumbled, kicking Bellatrix too, with more force than Tom. Four years in the past had lessened the force of his hatred toward her, but they hadn't erased it wholly. She was still one of those people on whom he enjoyed putting the hurt.

"As if it mattered," Tom scoffed.

Harry wasn't sure if that was a positive or a negative answer, and decided that he didn't want to know after all; he'd rather have no answer than one he didn't like. The touch of Tom's hand on his neck nearly made him vomit.

He pulled away, grumbling: "I'm really not sure I want to sleep with you again…"

Tom sighed.

Harry had not intended for Tom to hear. After all, he very much wanted him, regardless of the abuse his body had sustained during the past decades – if only he could get rid of the feeling of bile rising in his throat.

"I'll go through the ritual," Tom reminded him. "Won't get much cleaner than that."

x

Harry was so exhausted from the rejoining of Tom's soul and the following chaos of a meeting that he fell asleep while Tom was in the middle of the ritual.

When he woke up, on a hot August Sunday afternoon, Tom was lying on the other side of the king-sized bed, reading. He was wearing only a pair of trousers, and the sunlight made his skin look healthier, less pale than it in fact was. Harry critically observed the almost pathological thinness of Tom's body and sighed, which attracted the man's attention.

"Harry."

The word itself had no emotion in it, but the bond transmitted a wave of desire, hope, and plea for forgiveness, which Harry could not grant because he did not feel he had anything to forgive in the first place. The murder of his parents had long since become but a fact, and Voldemort's clashes with child Harry seemed irrelevant. None of that was the fault of Harry's Tom in the first place.

"_I love you_," Harry told him, because it was the best he could offer in the situation.

Tom's eyes were wide, almost fearful, with a hint of innocence that had in 1947 been labelled as hope, embalmed and, together with most of Tom's memories of Harry, stowed in the second Horcrux. Now that Tom had all his memories back, his mind was so familiar that they had established Legilimentic connection spontaneously within seconds of eye contact, and knowledge passed between them freely.

Tom was scared to believe him, Harry understood, but in Harry's eyes he was still perfect. It was a flawed perfection, admittedly, and maybe that was an oxymoron, but Harry had long since stopped expecting life and emotions to make sense. They were both upset and uncertain of what they were supposed to do now, how they were supposed to act around each other, but fortunately neither Harry nor Tom had ever subscribed to conventions. Harry decided to go on as if it really had been just a week since he and Tom had been living together in the Riddle estate and to deal with any problems as they would crop up.

This time there was no nausea when he held Tom's upper arm, so Harry leant in and kissed him, at first just getting used to the closeness again and then delving deeper, his tongue sliding against Tom's. It was just like fifty years ago. They fit together. Passion rose in their bodies, sweeping them like a tidal wave, washing away all lingering awkwardness between them, and Harry barely had a chance to speak while his fingers counted Tom's vertebrae.

"You would have aged well," he commented, resting against the pillows with half of Tom's alarmingly low weight on his chest.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Tom asked, tilting his head to the side, trying to decide whether he should be flattered or insulted.

Harry chuckled. It wasn't easy to confuse Tom, and Harry was quite proud of his Slytherin training. "That I still think you're beautiful, and I still want to fuck you through the mattress. Or the other way around. I've spent Friday with Dumbledore's toadies and need to get off – I'm not picky," he said flippantly.

"The horror," Tom drawled, forgetting the fears in his amusement. "You should go through a cleansing ritual yourself."

"I should," Harry agreed, looking completely serious. "Just let me get out of the bed-"

Tom growled and pinned him down, setting Harry off in a fit of laughter. "You, Mr Riddle, are not going anywhere!"

x

It was easy to forget that he had jumped fifty years forward in time, Harry thought. Tom was barely different from how he had been in 1947 – still devoted to his Vision (and to Harry in private), in bed still unabashedly a bottom, still prone to baiting Harry and losing in contests of patience. His memories of life as Voldemort were there, of course, and they occasionally resurfaced, but mostly he kept them in a closed off section of his mind, under an Occlumentic lock.

Harry and Tom indulged themselves by spending the Sunday alone together, but on Monday in the afternoon it was the highest time for them to crawl out of their hidey hole and begin the labour of restructuring their power base.

They met the group staying at the Nott Manor in the dining room. All of them were seated around the middle of the long table: Antonin was there, and so was Avery, both Tybalt Lestrange's sons and the two Notts, the younger of which, Harry was pleasantly surprised to find, was mature beyond his age and an equal contributing member of the group, lacking only the Dark Mark itself.

"What is the general reaction within the Order?" Tom asked evenly, sitting down next to the younger Theodore, who couldn't quite conceal the awe in his eyes.

Harry seated himself opposite Tom, smirking smugly. Tom was, indeed, very awe-worthy, especially with the post-coital glow on his face, which Harry had put there; the fact that he was nervous about the meeting just added a humane quality that made his power all the harder to believe.

"Most assume that the major change was in your appearance, My Lord," Antonin replied concisely. "Very few were aware of your forays into soul-magic and therefore could not understand the purpose of the ritual that returned your youthfulness to you. The general consensus so far is to wait and see whether you were affected in other ways." The Death Eater turned to Harry. "Your presence, My Lord, is much more controversial. There are those who wish to kill you still, for revenge or jealousy. Some believe that you have tricked My Lord into accepting you and are going to betray us. There will be dissenters, indubitably."

"Names?" Tom requested shortly. The Notts and Lestranges, who hadn't experienced Tom's rule before, all stared at the two Riddles in amazement.

"Well," Antonin deliberated, "Bellatrix is not in a fit state to cause dissent, but she will cause trouble-"

"We're handing her over to the Ministry," Harry cut in.

Tom gave him the customary raised eyebrow, but this wasn't a point open to argument. They both knew that Harry imposed his decisions only when he believed it was necessary, and this time it was necessary.

"Until that time, we can put her into coma or just lock her in a cell…"

"If I may, my Lord…" Rodolphus spoke, voice trembling with terror. He waited until Tom nodded before he continued. "Bella has always been loyal to you, and imprisoning her like a traitor would be… mocking her stay in Azkaban…"

"Put her into coma," Tom ordered and turned back to Antonin, disregarding Rodolphus's gasp of relief at not being punished. "The dissenters?"

"Alecto and Amycus Carrows, Fenrir Greyback, Walden Macnair, the Yaxleys. I'm sorry, my Lord," the man added automatically.

Tom shook his head, refusing the superfluous apology. "They shall have a chance to change their minds before we neutralise them. One chance," he emphasised.

Harry knew better than to mistakenly believe Tom was getting soft, but the remainder was necessary for the four members of the younger generations around the table. Otherwise it would not be long before their relief at the lack of Unforgivable response to any sign of self-assertion would turn into belligerence.

"Do you have the Memoranda?" Harry asked when Tom disappeared into his head to plot.

"I found a version from 1943, one from 1945, and one from 1948. Either of them would require a major revision."

"The one from my sixth year at Hogwarts is useless," Tom said, shocking his audience by admitting that his own creation was in any way lacking, regardless of the fact that he had been a teenager when he produced it, a mere kid, no matter how smart. He went on to criticise his adult self, too: "The newest one is too radical. Start with the version from 1945 – that's the only one that had been drawn with Mr Riddle's cooperation."

Harry couldn't stop the smile from spreading. It was the first time Tom had called him that in front of anyone else, even if it was just because using his first name might have made the Death Eaters assume a familiarity with Harry that they didn't share.

"If I may suggest, My Lords," the younger Theodore spoke up, "it would be beneficial to first reform the Dark Order into a legitimate political party…"

Aurelius Avery threw his head back and laughed, and then spoke up for the first time, finally certain that these Tom and Harry were more or less the same Tom and Harry he had once known.

"You have no idea, boy… No idea."

x

Tom put the parchment down on the table and nodded. "It is satisfactory."

The three younger Death Eaters sagged in their chairs, relieved that there would not be Cruciatus Curses cast every which way.

"Has someone contacted the Lovegoods?" Harry asked.

"They have not responded. It is quite possible that the missive did not reach them, My Lord, but they are an openly Light family and unlikely to trust a letter from a Death Eater."

"Send them a letter personally," Tom ordered Harry, who simply accepted it as a suggestion and didn't bother pointing out it could have been worded more nicely.

"We'll use a muggle printer, then," Harry informed the table.

He received several grimaces and sneers for his effort, but the fact remained that Tom didn't protest.

"Ten thousand?" he asked Tom, calculating with the size of British wizarding society.

"I'll sort it out myself," Tom responded. "I cannot think of anyone else I would trust in the muggle world, and I need you to sound out the Light for sympathisers."

Harry scowled. It was pretty pathetic of the Dark Order that the only one able to competently deal with muggles was the Dark Lord himself… But Snape was a half-blood! Shouldn't he have been able to pass unnoticed among Muggles? And what about Mulciber? He wasn't pure-blooded either – both his parents had been half-blooded!

Then Harry recalled it was less than two months since the battle in the Department of Mysteries. That was why some of the Death Eaters were missing… that was not good at all. They needed those Death Eaters – some of them were the most capable, the sanest of the lot – and they had to get them out before the Order went legitimate, else they would be facing a nightmare of a public outcry followed by the Ministry getting involved, followed by a series of arrests. The wizards and witches they would have gotten out would be sent right back in.

Time was of essence.

"We should storm Azkaban," Harry said. What had seemed like a logical conclusion to him garnered a reaction of shock and indignation.

"Are you _insane_?" Tom demanded.

Harry's lifted eyebrow was apparently enough of a confirmation.

"You are."

"We need to get the usable Death Eaters out of there before we propose armistice," Harry implored.

Tom shook his head, stood up from the table and paced across the room to the empty fireplace and back to work off his fury.

Harry patiently waited for him to return and explain what the heck was his problem.

"_I have other ways of getting my followers out, Harry_," Tom hissed. "_Look around yourself – Dolohov, Avery, Nott and both Lestranges were all there for less than a month before I recovered them. Macnair is also free, and it's only a matter of time before we get Malfoy, Rookwood, Jugson and Mulciber. I'm thinking of leaving Crabbe there_-"

"_Tom, we need more bargaining power, and can you imagine anything short of taking Hogwarts or the Ministry itself – which would be too violent and raise a huge wave of resistance – that would make such an impression? You are the one using fear of power to inspire loyalty. You figure it out_." Public outcry was all fine and well if it helped promote them.

Tom sat back down, put his heel up on the edge of the seat and stared at the ceiling. The Dark Lord relaxing even slightly in the presence of his followers was previously unheard of, and the sight made Harry realise that this group of six was effectively the Innermost Circle of Death Eaters.

"_We cannot oppose the dementors, and they have not joined me_," Tom tried to explain why he objected to Harry's suggestion so vehemently. "_Even so, I am Tom Riddle now, not Lord Voldemort, and I can't offer them even as much as I had offered before_."

"_We'll cast Patroni_," Harry said. It seemed simple enough to him – after the end of his third-year when he had banished dozens of dementors with a single Patronus, Azkaban didn't seem impossible at all.

"_Dark wizards cannot cast Patroni, Harry_!" Tom exclaimed.

Everyone except Harry winced at the harsh hiss. Despite his acting with less decorum than he usually kept in front of Death Eaters, Tom's wrath was no less frightening than ever.

Harry put his elbow on the table and made a show of appearing unconcerned. "_That might be a problem_… Am I the only Light wizard on our side?" He didn't want to argue, but it appeared to him as though Tom was making up excuses. Maybe it was a natural reaction to Azkaban; maybe the place was so horrible that even the Dark Lord refused to go near it, but Harry felt that it had to be done, and if Tom was going to be a chicken, Harry was perfectly capable of leading the raid himself.

Antonin nodded sadly.

Tom closed his eyes, lines of distress appearing on his face. "We had you and your contacts and that entire web fell apart. Without you, there wasn't anyone to maintain it."

It wasn't really such a great surprise. Harry had always handled the Light part of their support base because Tom was the paragon of Slytherin, of traditionalism, too smart and skilled and powerful to be trusted by members and former members of other Houses or wizards with mixed heritage who already felt like their position in the magical society was in jeopardy and they had to keep their head down. Harry was less known, more approachable, and that had made the difference for many.

"_I don't want to be too critical, Tom, but you really messed this up_."

"_I know_," Tom said ruefully, meeting Harry's eyes to convey the depth of his regret. It was staggering. "_I… needed you. More than I ever realised I did and, trust me, that's saying something_."

Harry really didn't know what to say to that, but apparently Tom didn't know what he wanted to hear, so it worked out.

"My Lords?" Avery reminded them of the presence of the others, who were being left out of the debate and growing more nervous as time passed. Only Antonin and Avery were not overly concerned – they had witnessed similar hissed exchanges before.

"I think we should finish for today," Harry opined. "Perhaps tomorrow there should be a full meeting…" He intentionally left that matter open, but Tom wanted to call the Death Eaters as soon as possible anyway.

"Don't do anything too spontaneous," Tom admonished when Harry stood to leave.

It was too early to do anything about Azkaban, and Harry didn't feel like getting himself maimed or killed. He was prepared to bide his time on this one, but after a day of idleness he was itching to get some work done.

He raised his hand in a wordless goodbye and said: "I'm going to see a lady about some blackmail material."

x

Harry returned to Nott Manor late in the evening, his head filled with fifty years' worth of information about Albus Dumbledore overstepping conventional moral boundaries, with the side-dish of some very interesting facts about Rita Skeeter.

Tom didn't badger him. He had quite a lot to think about himself, primarily today's meeting. The Death Eaters had been called and already began to trickle in, taking their proper positions in the formation – a sort of pecking order, Harry thought humorously – while Tom observed from his throne and Harry from his shadow.

The light grey of the floor gradually disappeared beneath the draping folds of black robes and dresses. Harry disagreed with the setup and was already plotting how assemblies should be conducted in the future – without kneeling, definitely, and perhaps it would be a good idea to provide seating for the crowd – when it occurred to him that _all_ Death Eaters had been called in.

"_Is Snape going to be here_?" he asked. It wasn't a good time, but better now than too late.

"_He should_," Tom replied. "_Why is it of importance_?"

Harry scowled. He had no idea how to best handle Snape. The Potions Master's loyalty could probably be won, but he wasn't sure how to go about it. Appealing to his sentimentality was doable, but Harry didn't believe it would work on the man that had bullied him for five years. Offering benefits would have no effect, because Snape had already gone through that and moved past the desire for power or riches. Aside from a freezing desire for revenge on men who were already dead he was mostly apathetic, and it was as good as impossible to win the loyalty of an apathetic man.

Either way, they could not let Snape return to Hogwarts without some assurances of his loyalty or, leastways, discretion.

"_We need to single him out. He must not leave_."

"_So he is a traitor_." The calm in Tom's voice was unnatural, and Harry suspected that Snape's life expectation had just been radically shortened. That was exactly what he had been trying to avoid.

"_He was once faithful. I think Voldemort drove him away, in which case he might be coming back if you don't kill him. If he refuses, then by all means_."

Tom gritted his teeth and his face twisted into an ugly grimace, but Harry was resistant to it. One had to be tough to survive a Riddle – that applied to both of them. Tom despised traitors, he even despised Pettigrew, and not because of his unplanned downfall caused by the reflected Avada Kedavra, but because of the simple fact that the rat had committed treason against those who held him in confidence. Pettigrew was under a lock and not attending the meetings – Tom believed that if he had betrayed once, he would do so again. He perhaps could have excused it if Snape had fled and never returned, but spying on his Order made Tom homicidal.

"Silence!" Tom snapped. Obedience was instant. "Ssseverusss Sssnape!" The air around Tom crackled with the magical reflection of his fury.

Harry was worried that at this rate Tom would kill the Potions Master without intending to.

Snape walked out of the formation and knelt, taking off his mask and letting his hood fall back. His face was pale but he held his head high, and only his trembling hands revealed that he was not perfectly content in his current position.

Harry felt a detached, abstract admiration for that gall.

"_I had my suspicions, but had I been able to think clearly, I would have seen through his act years ago_," Tom hissed very quietly, never taking his eyes off of the Professor, who was experiencing approximately what a bug under a looking glass felt like. Beads of sweat trickled down Snape's forehead, stinging his eyes, making him blink too often.

"_I don't want to have to say it_," Harry replied impudently.

"_Yes – if I had been blind enough to miss this, I probably deserved to be spied upon. The insanity could not have inspired loyalty but in the equally insane_." Tom switched into English and addressed the Potions Master: "Go to the Open Study, sit down and do not move an inch!"

Snape bowed and walked out with the same efficient, purposeful stride, but the look in his eyes was dead.

"_Do not thank me yet_," Tom stated before Harry had a chance to say anything. "_I want to hear what he has to say before I decide to let him live_."

x

The meeting went unreasonably well; an occasional Cruciatus kept even the alleged dissenters in line, and those were clearly the tiny minority. The mood of the evening was uncharacteristically cheerful – the Death Eaters were happy about Tom's regained charisma, about his regained sanity and eventually also about Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived and formerly their greatest obstacle, joining the cause. By rights they should have been skeptical, but apparently Voldemort's sadism and general insanity had not endeared him to his following.

Suddenly it seemed as if the Dark Order had a real chance to win, and while virtually everyone found something in the Memorandum they objected to, everyone also found something they wished for. Two thirds of them were undoubtedly scheming to take advantage, and Tom was almost proud of them, like a parent of a preschooler that had called his harpy of a kindergarten teacher something vulgar and graphic. It was naughty, but it was smart.

The only truly negative occurrence was when Macnair asked for a leave to go torture some muggles for sport and Harry reacted by Petrifying him and having a house elf transport him into a cell adjacent to Wormtail's.

By the time the meeting was dismissed, Harry came to the conclusion that they had the Dark part of their following as well in hand as could be expected. The only one that remained to be sorted out ere the beginning of their revolution was Snape.

While the Death Eaters and sympathisers filed out, Harry frantically finalised his strategy for approaching Snape. He was far from satisfied with it, and the trek to the Open Study was entirely too short.

Harry walked into the Study behind Tom. Snape was sitting in an upholstered armchair as he had been instructed to. He noticed Harry but dismissed him as a part of the background, playing with the stem of a goblet full of clear liquid. Harry guessed that it contained some fast acting poison with which the man hoped to grant himself a quick death before he was dragged off for torture and interrogation.

Tom sat down opposite Snape, with his back to the door, comfortable only due to his confidence in Harry, who was covering him at every moment.

"I was told of the extent of your 'cooperation' with Dumbledore," Tom started bluntly, shocking Snape yet paler, "by a wizard I trust far more than I trust you, so let us dispense with the pretences of your loyalty to the Dark Order."

Snape took a deep, rattling breath and cradled his goblet closer. "May I congratulate you to your rejuvenation, my Lord?" he returned tonelessly, automatically using the address that might have been called spurious, but that came naturally to any Death Eater dealing with Tom.

Tom ignored the unrelated observation; he only took note of the genuine surprise that Snape did not bother to conceal. Obviously, no one had filled the man in on what had happened at the last meeting. The news about Harry Potter being married to the Dark Lord were spreading like wildfire among the Dark witches and wizards of Great Britain, but Snape had been once again left out due to his lack of interest in socialisation.

"It was pointed out to me that you might have had a valid reason for turning to the so-called 'Light side'. You have now an unprecedented, singular chance to explain yourself to my satisfaction."

Harry perversely enjoyed seeing Snape lost for words. Tom did nothing to hide his loathing of the man, but the mere fact that he was being ordered to talk instead of tortured without a question had stupefied the Potions Master.

"Speak!" Tom snapped, not having the patience to wait until Snape deigned to collect his wits.

"I do not expect you to sympathise, My Lord, but I have only ever cared for three people. One of them was beaten to death in front of my eyes by a drunken muggle. I found your cause to be something I wished to fight for. I lost that ideal when the other two died by your own hand."

Tom briefly closed his eyes and Harry could sense him crushing tendrils of self-recrimination. Snape's was a tragic story, and very close to what Harry had anticipated they would hear. It was far from unique and fairly predictable.

"Who?" Tom demanded.

Snape raised his chin. "The first one was my mother. The other two were Regulus Black and Lily Evans."

Tom's fingers tapped a rhythm-less melody against the wooden armrest of his chair. They were stick thin, betraying the frailty of his body that he had attempted to hide by wearing an additional layer of clothing.

"The Dark Order has undergone a revolution during your absence, Snape. I am now who I used to be before the madness gripped me – my sanity was returned to me together with the humanity you have already commented upon. The cause we are now fighting for has also been altered." He recovered a slightly crumpled copy of the Memorandum from his robe and handed it to Snape, who shifted his goblet into one hand and accepted the parchment with undisguised skepticism.

As the man read, keeping his expression impassive, Tom once again started growing impatient. Harry tried to placate him through the bond, but the effect was negligible.

Eventually Snape gave the Memorandum back and with all the dignity he could muster said: "I am sorry, My Lord, but this act – although well contrived – does not convince me. You have nothing to support your claims of change-"

"Wrong, Mr Snape," Harry spoke before it was too late.

He was tempted to point out that the world didn't revolve around Snape and that the Dark Lord did not have the time or resources to waste on creating such a theatre solely for the benefit of a traitor who had very nearly outlived his usefulness, but the situation called for a quick fix, so Harry could not make Snape angry just for the sake of seeing him blow up. Besides, it would have been pathetic, kicking someone who was already down.

"I will vouch for Mr Riddle." He walked into full light, quite suddenly separated from the background in which he had taken refuge, and stood at Tom's left shoulder.

"Potter…" Snape let out, torn between incredulity, horror and utter confusion. Harry's older appearance, his presence next to Tom Riddle, his support of Tom Riddle's claims, all that must have been a tied Snape's thoughts into a Gordian knot. Tom looked ready to employ Alexander's solution to it, but Harry took a measure of satisfaction from the look of utter confusion on Snape's face. What remained of the little boy persecuted by his Potions teacher considered this a moment of justice.

"Potter?" Harry tsked. "Everybody says that. I'm becoming tired of having to correct everyone I meet."

Tom scowled at him, not in the mood for jocundity. "You will continue to either correct them or ignore it. The time has not yet come."

"Time… a damn fickle thing, isn't it?" Harry mused. He wished he could put his hands on Tom's shoulders, but their audience wasn't ready for that, even if Tom had been inclined to allow it.

"Say what you mean to say, Harry, and finish this," Tom said sharply. "If I had my way, this scum would be a head shorter now and the problem solved."

"What have you done this time, Potter-"

In a split second, Tom was standing straight, towering (despite his not really imposing height) over Snape, with his wand aimed straight between the two wide black eyes. Harry's hand was gripping Tom's wrist. They had both moved too fast to register, and had to momentarily pause to let their minds catch up to their bodies.

Very slowly, Tom turned from Harry to the Potions Master.

"You owe your life to Harry twice over, you deceitful abomination," he growled.

Harry amused himself by watching as it finally dawned on Snape just why he was still alive. The man quickly considered what kind of hold the Boy Who Lived might possibly have had or pretended to have over the Dark Lord, and probably came up with a blank.

"One more offence, and nothing will save you!" Tom stated definitively, and switched to Parseltongue: "_I do hope you appreciate this compromise I am making for you_."

Harry nodded. He stroked the soft skin of Tom's wrist with his thumb before he let go. "_I do, Tom, greatly. I understand your feelings on the matter, but he is a unique case. I will not ask for mercy for anyone else_."

Tom nodded his acceptance and stalked out of the room.

Harry cocked his head to the side, listening for any distant crashing sounds, but there was nothing to be heard.

"Potter-"

"That is not my name!" Harry barked, letting his personal feelings for this man show now that the game of verbal tag had been left to him solely.

Snape opened his mouth, but Harry was no more in the mood to listen to his sniping than Tom had been.

"I will not tell you my name until and unless you deserve the honour. I am not returning to school, so you technically do not need to know it. I will give you a fair warning before you try anything: I am now twenty years old, and while that may seem very young to you, I assure you that my title of 'Lord' is deserved. You will address me as such, unless I give you the leave to do differently-"

Snape stood up and cut in. "Desist with this charade, Potter! This room is not guarded! Nothing stops me from dragging you to the Headmaster, so do yourself a favour and come quietly!" When he reached for his wand, it was all over for him.

Harry Petrified him and sighed. He had done quite a lot more than he probably should have in the effort to preserve this man, and Snape had thrown it into his face. It was a case of a previously abused animal biting the hand that was trying to feed it, but he didn't have the time and energy to expend on a stick-and-carrot routine with a wizard that might not have been salvageable anyway.

Keeping the incapacitated man on the edge of his peripheral vision, Harry walked to the door. To his surprise, Tom was standing there, waiting for him.

"It might have worked if he just listened," Harry said, not bothering to hide his disappointment.

The last thing Snape saw before a blast of lethal green light enveloped him was the Dark Lord lowering his head to kiss the Boy Who Lived.


	6. Recruitment

Chapter Five: Recruitment

x

Harry lay nestled between Tom's legs, with his cheek resting on Tom's still gaunt stomach and Tom's long stick-thin fingers carding through his hair. The Green Suite of the Nott Manor was beginning to feel like home again. Harry still could not quite grasp that fifty years had actually passed. He wasn't sure he would ever have a reliable sense of time again.

"You have friends in this time?" Tom asked when he noticed Harry was awake, the question related to whatever topic was on his mind in the very early hours of the morning.

"Associates," Harry corrected him in a slightly hoarse voice. He made a silent wish for a cup of water. It was granted, whether by a house elf or by his subconscious magic. He couldn't care less. He raised his head only as much as he absolutely had to, and drank.

Tom shivered when the cool liquid dripped onto his stomach.

Harry experimentally let go of the glass.

It vanished before it hit the floor.

The bond hummed contentedly and he felt sleepy, but didn't want to go back to sleep when there was this quiet _nox et solitudo_ with his husband to enjoy.

"Not even that, if they'll label me a traitor when they find out I'm married to you…" he added contemplatively.

"Hmm…" Tom replied eloquently, returning to his previous occupation of stroking Harry's hair. "You don't sound too disappointed," he remarked.

At the moment, Harry was simply mentally unable to feel disappointment. He laughed, burying his face into the expanse of soft skin. How could he be anything less than happy?

"Your self-confidence is not as low as to need an artificial boost from me, Tom," he said in between chuckles. "Besides, I am hardly objective."

"No one is objective about me. I don't even have a clear sense of what constitutes 'me'. How much of Voldemort is there?"

Harry personally thought there was a lot of Voldemort, but it all belonged to Tom just as Harry belonged to Tom. As long as Voldemort's forcefulness was mediated by Tom's sense, it did not bother him in the least. "You once said you wanted me to stop you if you were about to make a mistake. I will, Tom. What else is there to ponder?"

"Your friends." Tom just _had_ to think of something. "They are close to Dumbledore and might easily end up being collateral damage…"

Harry probably had his own Voldemort concealed inside him, because he honestly couldn't think of any way to respond but shrug. It would be a pity if either of his friends died… but it was also a pity Snape had died. It was a pity Theodore Nott the First had died. It had happened. Life went on. The only deaths that would have made the world end for him were his own or Tom's.

There was silence and Harry eventually started falling asleep again, only dimly aware that Tom was still lost in thoughts.

x

A massive media campaign was fired.

Articles about corruption and gross neglect of duty in the highest places of the Ministry were springing up daily.

In Skeeter's drawer Harry found a written biography of Dumbledore which no one had had the gall to publish. He commandeered a muggle printing office. Soon the book could be bought on every corner.

A copy of the Memorandum was delivered to every house and plastered to many a wall in public places. Other copies found their ways into Hogwarts where they were distributed evenly across the entire castle, into Ministry where the authorities destroyed them almost religiously yet somehow new ones popped up all the time… they appeared even on doors of public loos.

Within two weeks the two Riddles had the collective finicky wizarding public eating out of their hands. Xenophilius Lovegood renewed the alliance after he had read the Memorandum, had been assured by Harry that it was valid and by Luna that Harry was really Harry – the girl took the events in stride, as always, taking after her mother. Harry and Tom went as far as to have the Quibbler publish an interview with them, in which they were presented as T.M. Riddle and H.J. Riddle – enough for the people who had once known them personally to catch on, but disclosing very little to the average wizard. As a matter of fact, very few people realised that the leaders of the new movement were in fact the Dark Lord and the Boy Who Lived, and Dumbledore was forced to maintain his silence on the topic until he would find a way around Harry's spellwork.

Following the interview, Harry had received more than a dozen owls from his previous connections, who were, naturally, interested in the shift of power happening around them. Some promised support outright, others asked for assurances, but by the end of August Harry had the base of a new web of contacts firmly established.

It was the 31st of August when Narcissa Malfoy practically begged for an audience with them, finally convincing them with the argument that she wanted to present Draco before the start of the next school year. Harry didn't want to see the bleached ferret, but it was probably a good idea to remain at least faux cordial with the Malfoys. They were fashion-setters. If they pulled away from the New Order, they would take many others with them.

That was why Tom was currently lounging in an armchair in the Open Study rather than in the Green Suite, while Harry was less than gracefully spread out on the sofa. He was reading up on warding, not so much out of interest as to assure himself that without the intervention of someone of Potter blood (of which only the two Riddles were alive) Dumbledore couldn't free himself of the confidentiality ward.

They both stood when a house elf announced the guests, presenting a front of power and splendor meant to intimidate and attract at the same time. It was just an illusion, admittedly. Tom was a bit taller than Harry, but Harry had always been the physically stronger one of the two and it never had been as obvious as it was now, since neither of them was wearing a robe.

Narcissa and Draco entered and bowed. To Harry's mild surprise, Antonin followed them in.

"Take a seat," Harry ordered them dispassionately and lead by example.

Tom had returned to his original position as soon as they had said their greetings.

"Thank you for your time, my Lords," Narcissa said politely, trying to sound out whether the Malfoys were still out of favour after the debacle in the Department of Mysteries, or whether their speed in accepting Tom Riddle's new regime and Harry Potter's inclusion in it cleaned that stain on their name.

"My Lord indicated that he wished to give Draco a task to be done at Hogwarts during the school year… there was also… a mention of him getting the Dark Mark…" Narcissa steeled herself and looked at Tom. It was rather obvious that she didn't want her son to be Marked yet.

Harry shared the sentiment. He didn't want to deal with that brat.

"_Draco Malfoy? Were you insane, Tom_?" he hissed, staring at his husband, who merely lifted en eyebrow in response. Harry sighed. "_Right, a stupid question_."

"Do you want the Mark, little Malfoy?" Tom asked the boy, who jerked, startled out of his occupation of the past minute: glaring at Harry.

Draco floundered, weighing the pros and cons, and ended up looking at his mother for instruction.

Harry suppressed a groan. No wonder he had barely learnt any creative thinking until his sixteenth birthday, if this had been his only challenger.

"Narcissa, do you have anything else to discuss?" he asked of the woman.

She took a deep breath and braced herself. "May I inquire about the whereabouts of Severus Snape, My Lords?"

Tom's hands convulsively gripped the armrests of his chair, but so far nothing had exploded, which Harry counted as success. Life in the Dark Order was easier without Snape around, probably less painful for the random Death Eater. Maybe that death wasn't as unfortunate in the long run after all, if merely the Potions Master's name induced this kind of temper in the Dark Lord.

"Hell," Harry said, ending that discussion.

"Oh…" she said expressionlessly.

Draco's face, as opposed to hers, conveyed his feelings on the matter quite succinctly. The anger went a bit overboard, in Harry's opinion, but he could understand that five years of sucking up to a teacher going down the drain must have stung.

"In that case," Narcissa ventured, "forgive my insolence, My Lords, but neither I nor Draco is able to manage the Malfoy estate effectively at this time. I most humbly ask you… Please, return my husband to me."

Harry watched Tom's reaction. The man remained unmoved, but inside his head wheels were turning at light speed.

"_I meant to punish Lucius's incompetence to take him down a_ _peg_," he said in Parseltongue, ignoring the shivers of horror from the Malfoys. "_Arrogance runs in that family and I am becoming tired of it. But were we to take down Azkaban_…"

"_You changed your mind_?"

"_You must be absolutely certain, Harry_," Tom implored. "_Nothing can go wrong there. Can you do it_?"

Harry thought about it. It had never been done before, but that wasn't an argument that had ever worked on him. He was the one who set precedents: the only wizard to have banished a great number of dementors with a single Patronus, the only Light Dark Lord, the only person (he knew about) to have spontaneously time-travelled, the only human to have survived the Killing Curse…

Was there ever anything he hadn't accomplished when he had set his mind to it? He couldn't recall anything.

"_Yesss_," he hissed.

"Very well, Narcissa," Tom replied to the woman's plea, promising nothing but suggesting measures would be taken. "Now, is that all?"

The witch nervously pushed a lock of golden hair out of her face. "May I see my sister, my Lord?"

There wasn't much to see about Bellatrix, but there wasn't any reason to deny the request either. The woman was just lying downstairs, unconscious, periodically washed by an unlucky house elf. There was about as much point to it as there had been to visiting the Petrified Hermione back in second year… thinking of which…

"Have a house elf lead you to her," Tom commanded before Harry could think it through. "Do not move her, wake her or kill her. Otherwise do as you wish."

"Thank you." Narcissa stood and bowed, with Draco reluctantly following her example with a second of delay.

"Alone, Narcissa," Tom added. "We have something to discuss with your son."

The witch went pale. "Have mercy!"

Harry scoffed. Why should there be mercy for Narcissa Malfoy when it was denied to Lily Potter? She would have it, he knew, but the begging on behalf of a sixteen-year-old who should have been quite capable of comporting himself in this situation was the height of indignity.

"Dismissed!" he snapped.

She bowed one last time, cast a rueful glance at Draco and swiftly left the room.

Antonin, who had previously remained in the background to watch, came forwards to take the seat she had abandoned. "Have you changed your mind about Azkaban, my Lord?" he asked Tom.

Harry lifted his hand rapidly and stopped all conversation. "Chatter!" he called.

A house elf popped in, hastily wiped her face with the corner of the towel she was wearing, and curtsied. Harry was partial to her, since she had a hint of self-respect and personality, and the independence and intelligence to carry out tasks without express detailed instructions.

"Follow Malfoy," he ordered. "Make sure she only visits the comatose woman in the dungeons and comes straight back. If she goes elsewhere, Stun and bring her here."

"Chatter shall, Master Lord Harry," she said quietly and disappeared.

"You're having my mother followed?" Draco asked incredulously, staring at Harry. Apparently, he had yet to understand that if he annoyed a Dark Lord, he wouldn't get patted on his head and sent to his bedroom, which was the Dumbledorean solution; he wouldn't even be slapped on his wrist and given candy afterwards as he undoubtedly was at home.

The first thing Draco Malfoy learnt about being a Death Eater was that no one offended Harry in the Dark Lord's presence.

"_Crucio_," Tom said coolly.

He didn't hold the Curse for long – it was less than twenty seconds – but Draco kept on screaming for a while afterwards. It was really rather pathetic.

"I think I'll Mark him anyway," Tom said once they could hear each other talking.

Draco twitched on the floor until Antonin became sick of the sight and helped him back into the armchair, where the boy curled up on himself and tried to hide his tears.

"I haven't had someone I didn't need to hold back on for fear of permanently damaging them since Wormtail…"

The statement caused Malfoy to begin sobbing.

Harry hoped that Tom didn't really intend to accept this little pansy into the Order. He would have been about as useful as Lucretia had been at that age.

"I would keep my mouth shut if you wanted to Mark Theodore, but this is a spoilt little kid," Harry protested. "He'll end up dead, and his daddy will come raining contumely on our heads… It will accomplish nothing."

Tom obviously agreed with him, disgusted by the show Draco Malfoy made of himself. Harry knew exactly what Tom's Cruciatus felt like – it was horrible, but it didn't justify that amount of self-pity afterwards. Then again, Draco was the boy who had wanted a hippogriff executed over a little cut.

"We need Dumbledore out of the school," Tom stated, but it was pretty obvious to both of them that this pathetic excuse for a wizard would be useless in that endavour.

"And we'll get him out of the school," Harry agreed. "But let adults deal with him – not children."

"You are right," Tom said to Harry, driving in the lesson. There were now two Lords, and Draco Malfoy was but an insect on their road they might or might not step on. "Do mature a bit, Mr Malfoy, before you request admittance among fighters."

The boy nodded tearfully, probably finally understanding a bit about respect, even if it was only because he was scared shitless.

The matter concluded, Harry stood to leave. Tom could manage his people without supervision.

Before he had the chance, however, the elder Nott knocked and walked right in. "I apologise, My Lords, but there is an urgent missive for my Lord-" he nodded to Harry to signify which one he meant, "-and the bird won't let anyone take it-"

He was cut off by a sea-gull flying into the room through the slightly ajar door. It let Harry take its letter without a protest. The study was plunged into tense silence – even Draco stopped sniffling – while Harry read the message.

"Great bloody Merlin," he gasped and let his hand with the parchment down, lifting his eyes to meet Tom's. The shock and jubilation were transferred by the bond.

"What?"

"I have just secured us an alliance with Gringotts," Harry exclaimed incredulously, smile spreading over his face.

Tom took the parchment from his hand and his eyes skimmed over the lines. Then he grinned, set the letter on the table and displayed his own elation by kissing Harry.

"You, Mr Riddle, are brilliant!" he asserted with an uncharacteristic lack of concern for their privacy.

"Don't make me out to be smarter than I am," Harry protested, while at the same time he was enjoying the feel of Tom's arm around his waist. "You are and always will be the brains of this outfit."

Antonin laughed at the casual display of affection. "And to think Theo didn't want to believe me…"

"Ah well," Harry shrugged, recalling a certain conversation he had eavesdropped on. "He never felt any rivalry, did he?"

The Death Eater could have pretended he did not remember but betrayed himself by attempting a mock-innocent look.

Harry waved it off. "It was a long time ago, Antonin."

"A Listening Charm?" the man asked wearily.

Harry nodded, receiving another kiss and a reiteration of the compliment from Tom: "As I said, he's brilliant."

The little Malfoy, all but forgotten in the excitement of the alliance with goblins, muttered something that Harry didn't care to understand.

"Hush, Draco!" Antonin admonished with more gentleness than either Harry or Tom would have spared for the boy. "Mr Potter is one of the greatest Slytherins of this time."

Draco looked constipated hearing that, even though his mother must have talked to him about the Slytherin Harry Potter that Graduated in 1945.

"Thank you, Antonin," Harry said sincerely. "I value your opinion greatly."

Draco let out another sound – apparently fifteen seconds of Cruciatus were too little to teach him the merits of keeping quiet.

Harry let his head drop on Tom's convenient shoulder. "For Salazar's sake, just send him home. I don't want to listen to the incessant whinging."

Tom chuckled, too cheerful due to the good news to let one little idiot spoil his mood. "He is, indeed, quite annoying."

"Takes after his maternal Grandmother," Harry remarked, setting off both Antonin and Tom into a fit of laughter. He found himself staring at his husband and the spectacle he provided… so beautiful…

Draco was, actually, gaping in the same direction, although whether it was because he too could not tear his eyes away from the unique sight or because he hadn't believed that the Dark Lord had a sense of humour was questionable.

x

On the next day, the 1st of September, Harry began visiting his prospective allies.

He started out with the Diggorys, only to find that Cedric's mother was dead and his father had gone slightly irrational with the loss of his entire family. Amos swore allegiance without asking or being asked a thing and Harry accepted, too practical to refuse a fanatically loyal berserk fighter. He was the first on the list of wizards to take part in the raid on Azkaban.

The Tonks' found him seated on their front steps under a copy of the Memorandum stuck to the post box. They were just on their way to work, and quite shocked to see an aged Harry. They had never been particularly close to Dumbledore and, after inquiring about Bellatrix' fate, promised their support.

Harry approached several Weasleys (not Molly and Arthur, who were too entangled with the Phoenixes and would be warned to stay out of the conflict either by their children or not at all) and Prewetts, the Marchbanks', the Diggles and the Meadows'.

By five o'clock in the afternoon he had a list of wizards and witches willing to follow him that he felt satisfied with. There was but one last person he wanted to try and approach, even though it was a huge risk.

Harry Apparated half a mile up the road and walked down to the house, intentionally remaining visible at all times. He used a random stick he picked up from the ground to ring the bell and waited. The door opened with a loud screech that must have been cultivated for years. It hit a jingle-bell hanging from the ceiling.

"I have expected you," Alastor Moody stated, standing in the centre of a virtually empty darkened hall, having the advantage of movement, knowledge of the location, forewarning and the fact that Harry's eyes needed to adjust to the sudden lack of light.

"I would have been disappointed otherwise," Harry told him.

He was summarily gestured to come in and precede the retired Auror into the parlour – or what passed for a parlour in the home an older bachelor with no understanding of aesthetics and very basic one of hygiene.

"So you were the same Harry James Potter after all. Tell me, do you know now how you survived the Killing Curse?"

Moody might have been asking the question for Dumbledore, or he might have already guessed the truth from the article in the Quibbler. It was upping the stakes a bit much, but Harry had always lived by the Gryffindorly 'nothing ventured – nothing gained' and decided to gamble.

"It was because of our marriage vow."

Moody's sharp bark of laughter initially surprised Harry, but eventually made him chuckle a bit, too.

"Only you, Potter… or Riddle or whatever you are…" The man shook his head. "Screw the name, only you, anyway…"

"Well, I didn't intend to fall through time and marry my arch nemesis."

"You actually did all that unintentionally?" Moody didn't even wait for a response this time, he just laughed harder.

Harry waited for the hilarity to abate, before he pulled out his last copy of the Memorandum and put it on the table. "I'm reassembling our Light support. We have a big raid planned, with the objective to infiltrate and seize, no avoidable slaughter. Thought you might be interested."

"What about Dumbledore?"

The question made sense, and Harry had been asked it several times during the day in various wordings. This was the first time he considered answering truthfully in stead of offering some kind of platitude. Moody was one of the very few Slytherins from a truly Light family, not one that had switched post the war with Grindelwald. Harry was convinced that the man fought alongside the Headmaster because it meant fighting for the Light, not because of any loyalty for the Supreme Mugwump himself. Dumbledore wasn't someone any Slytherin could ever truly look up to after seven years at Hogwarts.

"Tom and I don't like him," Harry said with a shrug. "We're getting rid of him. No plans are in motion yet, but I expect McGonagall will be Headmistress before Christmas… unless she goes down with him."

Moody took a swig from his bottle and rolled it around in his mouth, contemplating. "He protected the wizarding world from the monster you have created."

The whole spatio-temporal continuum was hopelessly tangled and knotted around Harry, and if he followed each thread of motivations, actions and reactions to its origin, he doubted he would be the one at fault. He just didn't see it. Dumbledore was the one who sent Harry to live with the Dursleys, for example. The lack of security at Hogwarts was what directly led to Harry's disillusionment at a very young age. Had either of that happened differently, he wouldn't have been able to understand Tom so well – they wouldn't have become lovers… spouses… Tom wouldn't have gone insane.

"He is just as guilty of the creation of Voldemort," Harry claimed demurely. "Besides, he should have rightly been in Azkaban for years – he breaks laws as he pleases. It's the privilege and risk of those with power," he tried to explain, because Moody kept giving him an inscrutable look. "I'm not judging Dumbledore. I just want him gone."

Mad-Eye humphed, obviously agreeing at least with a part of Harry's arguments, but still far from convinced. He was a hard one to persuade, mostly because he did not think of the sides in the war as 'the good one' and 'the bad one', but weighed all their aims and methods to decide which one he deemed worthy of support.

Harry knew one aspect Moody liked about the former Dark Order: they didn't style themselves as the ones in the right. They merely fancied themselves having more power and therefore being entitled to write the history to their liking.

"How do I know you're telling me the truth?" the man asked eventually, and Harry knew that unless he would do something phenomenally stupid he had won.

"I am powerful enough not to need to lie to you," he replied, much to Moody's amusement.

"Maybe you are, maybe you aren't. But I think you're smart enough not to try."

"We were House-mates for two years, Mad-Eye-"

Moody didn't let him finish, slipping into a recollection. "You were so _forgettable_, Potter! _Unnoticeable_ even to people you shared the dorm with, but far more powerful than anyone except maybe Riddle… That's the most dangerous sort of buggers there are… And you went and washed glasses at the Leaky!" A shake of the ex-Aurors head showed just how incredible that decision had seemed to him. "And then you disappeared! I really thought you had done something Riddle didn't like and he stabbed you in the back and left you to rot in a dark alley."

That would never happen. Harry truly believed Tom would have set him free if they ever disagreed so fundamentally, but he also knew they would never disagree like that. They compromised. Well, more like Harry let Tom do what he wanted, except when he had a radically different opinion, in which case he simply overruled Tom.

"Tom and I couldn't fatally harm each other even if we wanted to – hence the reflected Avada and the Priori Incantatem. I specifically made sure it was part of the marriage vow," Harry admitted. He had selected the vow according to what he had known about the future, not because he was uncertain of Tom's intentions towards him in any way.

The statement succeeded in making Moody laugh again. "I don't know which of you is the sneakiest…"

"Oh, we're as bad as each other," Harry replied drolly. He checked the clock on the wall and found that, in case it was correct, he had been in this house far too long. "What do you think about the new Memorandum?" he cut to the chase.

"It has something to it," the ex-Auror said, seemingly noncommittally, but from him Harry took it as praise.

"Would you join us?"

Moody cocked his only surviving eyebrow. "Are you asking me this, honest to God-"

"You don't believe in God, Mad-Eye, and neither do I," Harry nipped that tirade in the bud. "You believe in magic, in yourself, and in striking first. Are you in?"

The man sighed, for the first time in all the years Harry had known him. Not even the Polyjuiced Barty Crouch had ever let out this rattling, chilling sound. "Potter, is this real?"

"Yeah."

"Then count me in."


	7. Revolution

Chapter Six: Revolution

x

Harry had never before done anything like this.

The only time he had ever come close was during the ill-fated attempt to rescue Sirius from the Department of Mysteries, but even if back then his friends had ultimately followed him, Harry hadn't had the time to feel all the power and commitment that came with leading a group of fighters.

He drew strength from Tom's steady presence at his right shoulder. He hadn't expected his husband to come with him, especially after all the protests against organising the raid at all, but Tom had insisted on going despite his inability to protect himself against the dementors. He completely relied on Harry, and that just added to the already very heavy burden of responsibility.

"If anyone has any questions, now is the time to ask them," Harry said quietly, letting his eyes slide over the row of determined battle-ready people.

It was unnecessary to raise his voice; the wizards and witches had been waiting for him to speak and heard every word. None of them said anything. They all had volunteered and had been briefed, and now they were just waiting for Harry to give the signal before they attacked one of the Ministry's strongholds. Ironically enough, the majority of them were Light-oriented wizards and witches who had joined the converted Death Eaters in a political movement called simply the 'New Order.' They followed Harry _specifically_, only theoretically aware that it meant that they were allied with 'He Who Must Not Be Named.' No one realised the alternative identity of Tom Riddle, whose original appearance didn't stand out enough to inspire suspicion – the notable exception being Mad-Eye Moody that had gone to school with them.

"No one?" Harry gave them the very last chance.

Tom, Mad-Eye and a couple others glared at him.

The only sounds were howls of the wind that brought salty air from the sea and the distant roar of waves crashing into the cliffs.

"Very well," he concluded. "Follow me."

Logic, experience and everyone around Harry maintained that he should have waited longer before he put his plans into effect, but Harry's patience had been running out with September dying. Today, on the dreary Sunday of October the 6th, he set foot onto the grounds of the Azkaban prison for the first – and hopefully last – time.

Harry had been both disappointed and pleased when Tom's people reported that the Ministry's security wasn't worth a broken knut. Since the paper-pushers that determined how much funding would go into penal institutions had decided to skimp on it, nothing stopped his team from portkeying onto the island.

Slapped in the face with a gust of chilly air, Harry sneered. The island was not as huge as to preclude the implementation of anti-Apparition and anti-portkey wards. Someone, somewhere, had decided that no one would want to come to here, anyway, and redirected DMLE's money into a reelection campaign. The wardline cut through the middle of a flat expanse of grass that separated Harry's team from their target.

"They did not even close the door," Moody remarked, disgusted.

Indeed, the front gate of the hulking, dark grey stone structure of the fort was yawning. Harry, already pumped to gills with adrenaline, simply walked in. He hexed two guards before Tom crossed the threshold, and looked around the cubby-hole that apparently doubled as the gate-keeper's office.

"They don't keep any documents here," Harry commented, not the least surprised by Fudge's pudgy face on a clip from the Prophet Stuck to the dartboard. "They must have some kind of registry in this place."

"You four are with me!" Moody barked, pointing at a group standing off to the side. "Riddle, we'll go down that way and let you know if we find anything of interest. Try not to get your soul sucked out in the meantime."

Harry wasn't sure if the comment was aimed at him or at Tom, and he didn't get the chance to ask, because Moody was already making his way deeper into the bowels of the prison along the corridor he had selected, dogged by the indicated four men.

"Meadows, take point and go right. I'll start upstairs," Harry ordered.

The rest of the group split evenly; half followed Nomiki Meadows into the low, shadowed hallway stinking of mold, the rest went up the stairs with Harry and Tom. Paradoxically, the first floor was darker and colder than the basement, infected with the lingering presence of dementors. Thick iron bars separated cells on both sides; every second cell featured a window roughly the size of Harry's palm. The corridor was crisscrossed with thin, concentrated beams of sunlight.

Several dark figures appeared; some floated along the hallway, other tried to descend from the second floor. An inmate screamed. Other screams and yelling answered, rich on slurred vulgarities and half-formed curses.

"_Expecto Patronum_!" seven Light wizards and witches yelled out in a cacophony.

A stampede of ghostly animals practically ran over the approaching dementors.

Harry left his people to clean up and free those prisoners that might later be of use, and with the escort of Tom, Dexia Japes and Mnemone Radford ventured upstairs in search of the registry.

The place was as horrific as Sirius's nightmares had implied, and that was when the dementors were kept at bay by Patroni. The human guards, half of which had been on their lunch break, staged a coordinated attack, but it was more of a token resistance. They were subdued without any real effort from the New Order.

On the third level they located and seized the archive and at their leisure planned which inmates they were going to free: the Death Eaters sans the most obviously insane, political prisoners and the accused that had been shipped there without a trial. Altogether, the number was slightly more than hundred.

Of those, less than a fifty had the strength and presence of mind to walk out under their own power. Harry's men had no time to bother with the rest, outnumbered two to one already by the able.

Harry had already begun to think it had all been too easy, when they crowded together on the large expanse of greyish grass stretching between the coast and the building. Seemingly the only obstacle left for them to overcome was about a hundred yards to the edge of the anti-portkey wards…

"They're coming!" Antonin called from the back of the legion.

"Dementors!"

Light drizzle began to fall from the clouded sky but turned into snow before it reached the ground. Blades of grass crunched under their feet, frozen. When some of the newly freed prisoners began to scream and wail, Harry halted.

"Tom?" he asked.

"Whatever idiocy you have in your mind now, I am not letting you do alone," the man hissed, shocking and scaring those nearest to them.

Harry accepted Tom's response without arguing and exchanged a look with Mad-Eye, who nodded and moved to lead the procession further, while Harry and Tom returned and wove through the crowd to its back.

So far the dementors were keeping their distance, but they would not for much longer. There weren't just hundred of them, but a sea, an entire ocean of black robes, slimy hands, stale breath and rattling sounds echoing from all sides. Harry felt tiny in the midst of that circle of horror.

"Take my hand," he demanded, only faintly aware of Tom never having left his side.

"What?"

"Tom Marvolo Riddle, I'm arguably the most powerful Light wizard in the world and I'm having doubts, so do as I fucking tell you and take my hand!" he snapped, all but fear and despair driven from his mind. Even the bond failed to transmit anything but pain and hatred from Tom. The world felt like Hell. Harry envied Snape at that moment-

A warm hand enveloped his own and gently squeezed. Harry felt the touch of familiar magic entering his body through his palm, and even though it was just a sensation rather than what truly was happening, it reminded him of the silver-gold-coppery glow enveloping them in the poky office somewhere on the Iceland…

"_Expecto Patronum_!"

He hadn't really expected anything but, if asked, he would have said that a shiny stag should have appeared and driven the dementors away.

Instead, he produced a huge (although appropriately shiny) shape of basilisk that began to work its way through the deluge of the black-robed creatures, destroying them with the power of its sight. It casually grabbed one dementor into its jaws and munched on it, while looking left and right and apparently destroying an entire species.

"Light wizard, right…?" Tom remarked, while Harry was trying to figuratively collect his jaw from the ground. "You, Mr Riddle, are a freak of nature."

When the last dementor in sight was reduced to a heap of bones, ugly greenish skin and black rags, and the glowing king of snakes disappeared from view, searching for other prey, Harry finally found his voice.

"Tell me about it."

Looking around, he found that while the dementors were playing with them, the rest of their group had portkeyed out. He and Tom walked to toward the edge of barrier, but once again did not get far.

"In the name of the Ministry of Magic of Great Britain, you are arrested!"

Harry was about to let Tom just deal with the shouting idiot, when he realised there wasn't just one idiot. There were about two hundred of them that had portkeyed in simultaneously… actually, it looked like the half of the Ministry was there.

"Harry?" Tom said quetly.

And not just the Ministry. Albus Dumbledore, accompanied by the remains of the Order of the Phoenix that had yet to defect to the New Order, made his way to the front row. This was probably supposed to be a counter-attack planned in case Voldemort would have tried to take over Azkaban. It, however, didn't work against a pair of wizards (seemingly) barely in their twenties.

"Tom?" Harry whispered, reflexively clutching the hand he had yet to release.

"_Stall_," Tom advised. "_Our people will return any second now_."

"_It'll be a bloodbath_!" Harry protested, his eyes skimming the rows of familiar and unfamiliar faces, queues of uniformed wizards and civilians. If they engaged in a battle today, both sides would suffer heavy losses until the New Order would ultimately lose.

"_You are the icon of Light_!" Tom reminded him angrily.

Harry could feel his husband's fear, but also the determination and faith in their own skills. He stood straighter and turned to face the side where both Dumbledore and Fudge were standing.

"We propose a cessation of hostilities," he spoke clearly. "We offer to hand over the following individuals to the Magical Law Enforcement: Alecto Carrows, Amycus Carrows, Fenrir Greyback, Bellatrix Lestrange, Walden Macnair, Peter Pettigrew, Oedipus Yaxley. In return we demand a clean criminal record and citizenship for any individual bearing the Dark Mark not on the list. They shall become subjects of your government and punishable for any new offence."

He impressed even himself and Tom with that sheer impudence. Still, that was what he was best at – being rude. Oftentimes people were so insulted by his actions and statements that they didn't notice anything else going on around them.

"I notice you have excluded yourself and Mr Riddle from that group," Dumbledore pointed out, his eyes lacking the customary twinkle.

Harry found it disconcerting to be on the business end of the Headmaster's wand.

"_I hate that man_!" Tom growled, effectively raising Harry's spirits.

"Certainly, Mr Dumbledore," Harry replied sweetly. "It would be an outrage if a bunch of bureaucrats was given the leave to control Tom and me. At certain point, laws become more like… guidelines."

Dumbledore opened his mouth to cut Harry down for that, but Fudge spoke faster (probably because he actually didn't take even that split second to think about what he was going to say): "You cannot be allowed to-"

"We will be allowed!" Harry retorted, freeing his hand from Tom's hold to give both of them more freedom of movement in case it would be needed. The best defence was offence, and he was about to launch one. A part of the audience might have been on their side, which would have been really helpful to know, and Harry knew exactly what to say to catch both those snidgets into one hand.

"We're following your example Headmaster," he told Dumbledore. "The needs must, and sometimes laws had to be bent for you, seeing as you had the power to support your standing. The laws will accommodate us in exactly the same way-"

"Arrest them!" Fudge yelled, purple in the face and stomping his feet in a vain attempt to give his orders more force.

Harry laughed at him. "Go on! Send all your Aurors against the _two_ us!" he bade the tantrum-throwing little man.

Tom, quiet and feeling just as out of his depth as Harry, moved so that they stood back to back and slightly turned his head, muttering: "_Are you certain we can take them all down_?"

Harry sniggered, not entirely rational with the amount of adrenaline coursing through his veins. "_No idea_," he replied truthfully. "_But they won't send them. Besides, more than half of the Aurors are ours_."

Tom laughed too. "_You, Mr Riddle, are twisted_."

"_Said to kettle to the pot_."

He belatedly realised that Dumbledore had been telling them something while they were having their private conversation, probably trying to convince them to surrender or some such.

"… you were always a good boy. I am sure it is all a misunderstanding. If you come back to us, we-"

Neither Harry nor Tom got a chance to blow up at Dumbledore's speech, because at the very moment the New Order returned to recover their leaders: Antonin and Mad-Eye appeared on the edge of the wards, each bringing a dozen of his men. Thirteen Death Eaters and thirteen prominent Light wizards assessed the situation ,and Moody burst into laughter.

"What is so funny?" Antonin asked him loudly.

Moody pointed to the, up to this point disregarded, dementor carnage.

Harry grimaced.

"P-potter!" the ex-Auror called between barks of laughter. "D-did you do something unintentional again?"

By this time Antonin, Theodore, Aurelius and a couple of others were chuckling, too. On top of everything, Harry could sense that Tom was also rather amused.

He suppressed a moan and made himself look as innocent as he could – which wasn't effective at all, mostly due to his current ensemble. "Sorry?" he said weakly.

Antonin had to catch Moody to prevent him from falling down on the ground.

The seeming impasse was broken by someone from Fudge's suite throwing a curse at Harry's side. Tom dispelled it without trouble, rapidly cast a Homing Spell along the trace of magic and followed it by a Blasting Hex. The attacker died a moment later. Harry recognised the high-pitched scream as Dolores Umbridge.

"Thanks," he said, thinking of the execution rather than the assistance.

Tom raised his wand again in a nonverbal threat, but no one made the next move. Like Greeks landing on the shores of the plain of Ilium, they waited for someone to sacrifice themselves as the first to step forth and die.

In the end it was Amos Diggory who broke the silence. He crossed the wards and put himself into the line of fire, standing approximately half-way between the two surrounded Lords and the huge crowd. There he cast a Sonorus on himself and spoke.

"I want to tell you about my son!" That caught the attention of practically everybody. Cedric's unfortunate fate was well known. "His name was Cedric. Many of you might have heard that name – he was the Triwizard Champion for Hogwarts, murdered by the Dark Lord V-v-voldemort… But we can rejoice! The Dark Lord has been vanquished! Welcome the New Order! Follow Harry Potter!"

The silence was broken at this point. Diggory swearing allegiance to the Boy Who Lived was almost missed in the shock, elation and disbelief following the announcement of Voldemort's misleadingly implied demise. Scuffles among the supposedly fellow members of Ministry broke out. Fudge was Stunned by a limping man in Auror uniform, and the Order of the Phoenix had to create a human barrier around Dumbledore. Harry was greatly let down by Hermione's, Ron's and Ginny's presence, which he hadn't noticed earlier because they had been standing behind the adults.

Moody and Antonin had a brief discussion before their relatively meagre forces spread out and enforced order by casting wide-area Silencing Spells. About five minutes later, after several surreptitious attacks on Harry and Tom, which the couple deflected with ease, the plain was quiet again and Diggory could continue his impromptu speech.

Tom was doubtful about letting him do it, but Harry remained a gambler at his heart, and Amos Diggory was exactly the kind of wild card that might have won the war for them.

"Many of you have families at home – wives, husbands, children… If you fight and die here today, who will take care of them tomorrow? Do not get mixed up in a revolution – it might grow into a civil war and, after You Know Whose-" the man obviously didn't have the guts to repeat the Dark Lord's name, "-reign of terror, that is the very last thing our society needs. We need strong leaders with clear visions of the future, and you see them in front of yourself! All of you have read the Memorandum – stand with the New Order or go home and protect your families, but do not try and oppose a tidal wave!"

"_He's bloody brilliant at inspirational speeches_," Harry remarked, watching the man with amazement.

"_He's not all there_," Tom protested feebly. Some of the spectators Apparated and portkeyed out, others stood back, watching but apparently reluctant to get involved. A larger group of Death Eaters without masks appeared behind the wards. They were carrying the incapacitated dissenters, all those whom Harry had named in his proposal of armistice and others whom he hadn't remembered at the time.

"_Those are usually the people who gather the greatest following_," he noted, trying to comprehend how they could be winning what was turning out to be the one and only battle of the war by simply standing there and once in a while conjuring a shield.

"_Shouldn't he be the Lord, then_?" Tom asked snidely with a scowl that Harry couldn't see, but sensed quite clearly. As if there was anything to be envied about Amos Diggory's life, honestly…

"_He is shaping up to be the ideal figurehead, if he is controllable_," Harry said, stepping closer to Tom. He watched as Nymphadora Tonks took up position by Diggory's side and acted as his bodyguard. Harry didn't understand how he could royally screw up and end up getting much better results than anyone would have thought possible anyway. "_You are the one with the Vision. I am the one making it happen_."

x

"You're lucky that I love you, or I would torture you into insanity for this," Tom muttered.

Harry all of sudden felt tingly and warm inside, and the corners of his mouth twitched a little. It was the first time Tom had actually said it. Harry wasn't about to point it out, of course, since if Tom didn't watch out for slips, he was more likely to say it again sometime.

"Potter!" a gruff voice barked and added a grumbled "…or what's your name," that made Harry's smile appear fully.

Moody with a group of Aurors approached the loose ellipsoid of conjured chairs Harry, Tom and their Innermost Circle were sitting on.

"I want you to meet someone, you walking disaster!"

Although outwardly his face didn't betray anything, Harry could tell Tom took an odd liking to Mad-Eye – especially to his sense of humour. That was the only reason why he allowed such impudence.

"This fellow," Mood gestured towards the limping Auror with a wild mane of hair, whom Harry recognised as the one that had Stunned Fudge a couple of hours ago, "is Rufus Scrimgeour. I'd partnered him when he was greener than grass, and you can see he got far."

Indeed, Scrimgeour's uniform featured the regalia of the Head Auror.

"Potter," the man said, sticking out his hand.

Harry waited for Moody's confirmation before taking it. Scrimgeour's eyes automatically strayed to his forehead, and Harry's smile grew icy, freezing the scheming expression on the Auror's face.

"How can I help you?" Harry asked, even though the question he meant was: 'how can you help me?'

"Dear Cornelius was… accidentally… permanently incapacitated," Scrimgeor said mildly; butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. "These things happen in such a chaos, you understand… Well, as the Head of the Auror Office, yours truly has automatically become the interim Minister and, considering the bind we have found ourselves in, declared martial law."

It was crystal clear that Scrimgeour had been a Slytherin once – he had the language down pat – but he was too young to have met Tom and Harry at school. He was already on the way to become a reluctant ally.

"You see," the new Minister spoke directly, "I don't want a bloodbath and I see you don't want one either. You've recently dealt with the Dark Lord, and it would look pretty bad on my resumé if I tried to arrest you while the _vox populi_ worships your name. I don't want to get into a fight with you either way, Potter, especially not if he," he waved his hand towards Tom, "is who I think he is."

Yes, Scrimgeour was one very intelligent man who recognised quickly which way the wind was blowing, and used it to his advantage, while saving countless lives in the process. He didn't seem truly sympathetic to their cause, which was a pity, but it was far better for Harry and Tom to have to deal with a neutral Minister than if they had to fight an opposed one.

"So, what do you propose as a solution?" Harry asked.

Scrimgeour was declared to the Light, and quite obviously disliked Death Eaters, so the negotiations with him were Harry's domain. Harry wasn't very happy about it – Tom had decades of experience they could have used – but felt confident that he would do well. If he had managed to turn Moody…

Scrimgeour scowled at the seated men and turned back to Harry, expressionless.

"I'll declare your New Order a legal political party and accept the terms of armistice you have proposed." He looked over his shoulder at the scattered remnants of the Order of the Phoenix. Apparently, there was another organisation Scrimgeour didn't have much appreciation for. "You will cease all hostile action against the public and the Ministry and I even let you have a go at Dumbledore right now."

"Tom?" Harry asked, not because he needed to (he could feel Tom's sentiments through their bond), but because he wanted to make it clear to everyone that his husband was (at least officially) the leader of their group.

"Don't tell me you wish for my input _now_?" Tom asked frostily.

Moody snorted and Antonin spun to hide his smile, but everyone else was too cowed by the murderous expression their Lord was sporting to dare do anything that might have attracted attention to them.

"This is your choice," Harry replied calmly, unbothered by the menacing aura. Tom had just said a couple of minutes ago that he loved Harry and would probably refrain from torturing him. "You decide what you want; I make it happen for you. _Might not even know how, but I will_," he finished in Parseltongue. The Ministry didn't have to know that the Revolution had been an insufficiently planned raid turned near debacle turned desperate attempt on stalling turned _coup d'etat_.

"We accept," Tom stated simply, meeting Scrimgeour's eyes and holding his gaze in that disconcerting way that made people submit to his will in effort to avoid what they felt would be mental evisceration.

"So you are Him," the interim Minister said, more weakly than he had probably intended to.

"I am Tom Riddle, Minister. I assure you most of what you have heard about me were lies."

"In that case, it is an honour to meet you, Mr Riddle," Scrimgeour replied, his confidence rapidly draining. Apparently, despite all his distaste for Death Eaters, the casual meeting with the man that had been the Dark Lord Voldemort terrified him. "I'm afraid I have to return to the office – there will be mayhem at the Ministry that needs sorting out… if you'll excuse me…"

He instinctively half-bowed, unable to stop himself, and rapidly walked away before his fear of Tom became too obvious.

"He's a good lad," Moody said gruffly once Scrimgeour and his suite departed, "but he has an aversion to Dark wizards. Mind you, I'd kill anyone who uses Dark Arts on other person, too… if I could…"

"Don't provoke the Dark Lord, Mad-Eye," Harry warned seriously. The atmosphere was seemingly relaxed, since neither of the Lords wanted to be seen torturing their people by potential followers, but Tom had a low tolerance for stupid remarks.

"_I want to deal with Dumbledore first_," Tom hissed sharply.

"_Let's do this by ourselves. We've… well, you've waited for this for a very long time_." It wasn't exactly fair of them to pin all their frustrations on one old wizard, but Dumbledore had hurt them both. It was only natural that they wished to strike back.

"_I want to kill him_," Tom proclaimed, but there was resignation in his voice that suggested he had already accepted that it would not be a viable solution. They did not need to create a martyr, and that was exactly what a dead Dumbledore would have become, regardless of the biography putting doubts into the minds of wizards and witches.

"_That won't work, and you know it, Tom. To him, death is 'a next great adventure.' But there is one thing I know that would break Dumbledore's old heart_…" Harry sent short mental thanks to Bathilda Bagshot. "Give me a moment. Antonin, take your men out of here. Mad-Eye, you and yours stand by and make sure our unwilling friends don't try something desperate."

Harry and Tom left the Innermost Circle behind, casually walking toward the Headmaster and his most faithful. McGonagall was absent, probably watching over the school, but there were still more people than Harry would have expected to stay for this long: Molly and Arthur Weasley, Augusta Longbottom, Hestia Jones, Remus Lupin (staring at Harry with a thoroughly crushed expression), Elphias Doge and Dedalus Diggle. The children – Ron, Hermione and Ginny – had formed their own group slightly apart from the main one. Harry met Ginny's eyes and Legilimentically ascertained that the three of them had been dragged into the mess by Dumbledore, who believed their presence might have helped change Harry's mind. It was another wholly unnecessary black point to the old coot's name.

Harry closed his eyes and mentally called upon the one being that would be able to change what was going to happen. It was quite an unforgettable presence, powerful yet objective, and Harry hoped that it might decide to stay out of the conflict if asked to do so.

"Fawkes," he breathed when the air turned warmer. He opened his eyes again and found the phoenix measuring him from its perch on Ginny's shoulder. The girl was holding onto Hermione, almost buckling under the weight of the bird's body. Her head looked like it was on fire.

Fawkes chirped quizzically and then twittered, presumably returning a vocal version of Tom's sneer.

"We don't want to kill him," Harry said serenely, on a certain level aware that the phoenix understood not only what he was saying, but also what he was talking about, "but if you would just transport him out of prison anytime, we will."

Fawkes trilled a demure melody, looking from Harry to Dumbledore and back.

"Well, I am sorry, too," Harry said, feeling guilty for disappointing such a unique creature. "But his slate is not clean and, despite his generally more or less nondestructive intentions, he has made bad decisions that he needs to account for now."

Fawkes hung his head, let out several mournful tones staring at Harry, then repeated the process in Dumbledore's direction, and finally disappeared in a swirl of flames. Harry felt an odd emptiness inside at the thought that he would never again meet the phoenix.

"Why are you doing this, Harry?" Ginny asked tearfully, imploring him with her eyes to make everything alright again, as if he was some kind of a hero… actually, she might have seen him like that. He had once been lauded as the Saviour. Then she glanced at Tom, and Harry knew she recognised him. If they still received the Quibbler at Hogwarts, she had probably realised what had happened.

"Family comes first, doesn't it?" he asked gently.

Tom was busy having a staring contest and a Legilimentic battle with Dumbledore, and let Harry have the little chat with his friends.

"Yes!" Ron exclaimed, flushing pink.

Ginny merely nodded, hugging herself. Yes, she knew.

"We thought we were your family," Hermione said tentatively.

Ginny sobbed.

Harry shrugged. It had been years ago to him. He cared about them and was willing to welcome them warmly into his fold; should they join the New Order, they were prime candidates for the Innermost Circle.

"I stand by my husband," he said simply.

Ginny smiled bitterly through her tears.

"Husband?" Ron exclaimed.

Hermione bit her lip and cast a side-ways glance at the other girl, who must have shared her suspicions.

"H.J. Riddle, right?" Ginny scoffed. "Do you… hate us now?"

Harry shook his head.

Encouraged, she walked toward him, halting when there was about two feet of space left between them. "May I?" she asked, lifting her hands.

Harry hugged her. It was the first time he had touched someone except Tom like this since more than four years ago. It was strange, but not uncomfortable.

Tom glanced at him, surprised, but voiced no objections.

"I have never suspected you, Mr Potter," Dumbledore spoke, freed from the mental clash when Tom looked away. "You were the most cunning of the Slytherins, even more so than your husband."

Harry released Ginny and looked at Dumbledore, ignoring Ron's insistent questions about all sort of things starting with "Slytherin?" and ending with "Are you crazy?"

"Thank you, Mr Dumbledore, but I do implore you to use my correct name," he replied coldly.

The old man tried to say something to the rather vocal Ron, who had yet to take the hint and shut up, but could not.

"I would cancel the ward on you," Harry said without concern, "but it shan't be necessary. We have a room for you, right next to your once-upon-a-time lover."

Tom finally caught on and smirked. "As Gellert Grindelwald would say-" he paused, caught Harry's eyes and they finished in eerie unison: "For the Greater Good."


	8. Prisoners

Chapter Seven: Prisoners

x

"Chatter!" Harry called, startling Ginny, who sprang away from him.

Hermione took her arm and pulled her yet further away.

The house elf appeared between the two Lords and the remains of the Order of the Phoenix.

Dumbledore raised his wand, but a combined wandless spell from Harry and Tom had it flying out of his hand.

Tom Summoned it from the grass before Dumbledore had the opportunity to get it back himself. "The Elder Wand… is it not?" Tom asked the old coot, smirking.

Dumbledore remained silent.

Harry, who had had the chance to experience Dumbledore's way of thinking from the other side during his first five years at Hogwarts, didn't look away from the smiling face. He, privately, wasn't at all surprised that even as Voldemort Tom had feared this man. There was something immensely frightening in a warrior so powerful and sure of himself that he smiled at his enemies across the field.

When Dumbledore raised his hand for the second time, Harry was prepared.

"_Accio Portkey_," he whispered. Five separate objects including a pair of spectacles lifted themselves off of Dumbledore and shot in Harry's direction. There was a brief struggle as the old man tried to call one of them back, but Harry won, if by the skin of his teeth. He sidestepped and let the items fall onto the grass. Some of them might have been active, and Merlin only knew where they would have taken anyone who touched them.

"_Vinculum_," Tom cast a mere second later, enveloping Dumbledore in an imperturbable sphere to prevent him from Summoning his Portkeys back or gaining one from the handful of his followers, who were presently huddling behind the three Hogwarts students.

"_That was close_," Harry remarked flippantly, trying to loosen the tightness in his chest.

"_Thank you_," Tom responded, similarly affected. Harry refused to believe that even now Dumbledore was completely at their mercy. That was, after all, why he had called the house elf.

"Chatter, Stun and Bind," Harry ordered the creature that was respectfully standing in silence, waiting for directions.

She bowed and snapped her fingers twice in a row. Dumbledore fell over, practically mummified in thin ribbons of soft orange light. The only thing that kept him from hitting the ground was Tom's containing bubble.

The elf bowed again, waiting for further instruction.

Harry blocked out his friends' insistent questions about what he was going to do with the old man, and took a moment to think it through. "Can he overcome your magic?" he asked eventually.

Tom remained silent. The bond transmitted faint disdain and more prominent curiosity, underlined by the lingering gratefulness.

"No wizard can overcome house elf magic, Master Lord Harry," Chatter spoke confidently. "Only other house elf can undo Chatter's spells."

"Tom, is the Manor warded against strange house elves?"

"If it is not, it will be by tomorrow," Tom replied, suspending his distaste for the species he regarded as subhuman in light of their apparent usefulness.

"Chatter, this wizard will be your responsibility. He is to remain unconscious at all times and locked within a cell in the dungeons of the Manor. If you require rest or encounter trouble you cannot deal with yourself, you have permission to include other elves. In case of emergency, inform me immediately."

"As you wish, Master Lord Harry," the elf said, bowing for the third time, before she disappeared. She Apparated Dumbledore with her despite several yards of distance between them.

"_House elves are ridiculously underappreciated_," Harry couldn't help but quip when she was gone. He didn't wait for Tom's response – in case there even was going to be a response – and turned to the three children.

They were pale, but that was understandable. Ron was staring at the patch of grass where Dumbledore had disappeared and clutching his fists. Ginny had, after the hug from Harry, begun to adjust to the situation and was now watching with interest rather than fear. The presence of a well-dressed house elf that wasn't cowering in fear of either of Harry or Tom might have helped. Hermione was, predictably, scowling ever since Chatter had appeared, but fortunately she was smart enough to keep her mouth shut.

"_Send them back to Hogwarts_," Tom ordered. "_We have enough to do without running a nursery_."

Harry scoffed. "_At their age you have been already called 'Lord' by your followers_."

"_And I was an idiot. I wouldn't have amounted to anything if I hadn't had you to keep me focused_."

It was flattering and possibly true, but Harry decided to adjourn the rest of the mushy talk for bed later that night.

"Return to the school," he told the trinity. "I will contact you when we'll have dealt with this mess. McGonagall should do just fine without Dumbledore around, but you can discreetly warn her that harbouring an opposition to the New Order within the castle would be endangering the students."

They stared at him with wide eyes. Harry imagined they barely recognised him, but that was not at all surprising. Once the shock would pass, they would probably feel angry and betrayed. He found the idea only slightly displeasing.

"Can I write to you?" Ginny asked hesitantly.

"Certainly," Harry replied. "I can't promise I'll write back, but I'll read what you send. That goes for everyone from the DA who feels like they have something to tell me."

Ginny smiled, which was a small wonder, under the circumstances. "Can Remus take us?"

Harry smiled back. Even if this situation she had the courage to try and save other people. A true Gryffindor. "Yes. And take your parents and Mrs Longbottom along."

"Thank you." Ginny shrugged off Hermione's hand and walked over to give Harry another brief hug. She paused, then turned to Tom and curtsied.

Tom, startled, inclined his head in acknowledgement. "That one is yours already," he remarked when Ginny returned to the group where Ron made an attempt to berate her before he was shut up by Hermione.

The four named adults took their chance on departing without any harm coming to them and led the children toward the Anti-Apparition ward, even though Mrs Weasley looked extremely reluctant.

"_I think at least one of us should go back to the Manor before the peasants have evened it with the ground_," Tom noted wearily.

Now that the real danger had passed, Harry also felt the exhaustion. "_You should_-"

"_No_," Tom cut in. "_You go and debrief your fighters, send the Light ones home before they start a brawl and try and instill order. I'll explain the terms of armistice to these three_," he gestured toward Hestia Jones, Elphias Doge and Dedalus Diggle, who were looking as if they were waiting to be executed, but too scared to make a run for it or attack (or aware that neither would have helped them). "_I will come as soon as I get rid of them_."

x

Harry didn't do exactly what Tom told him to. He decided that there was no need for immediate debriefing anyway – they had lost no one, there had been no bigger injuries and Harry had been present for all of the day's major happenings, so he just sent everyone home straightaway and returned to the Nott Manor with only Antonin and the Lestranges on his heels, since Theodore Nott had gone home earlier to manage the influx of detainees they had freed from Azkaban and weren't yet certain if they were going to set free. The dungeons were going to be quite full for the next few days.

Harry's entourage entered the Hall right on time to be present for the awakening of the liberated Death Eaters. He was immediately recognised by Apollonia Greengrass, who gave him a hasty bow and launched into an appraisal of the situation.

"They were strongly affected by dementors, my Lord, so the Healers thought it best to sedate them while their injuries were tended to. We have given them each a praline, but I'm afraid there was not enough chocolate readily available to completely alleviate the effect. Nevertheless, it seems that all of them are sane, if largely confused."

Harry nodded and faded into the crowd, leaving his three companions to find their own spots from which they were going to enjoy the show. Unrecognised by anyone since Greengrass, Harry reached the dais and from the shadow of a pillar watched the family reunions all around. To say that he was unhappy about just how many underage wizards and witches had left Hogwarts to greet their relatives was an understatement. They had practically a class worth of children in the room, among others Theodore Nott, Daphne and Astoria Greengrass, Pansy Parkinson, Jonathan and Sally-Anne Perks and, right under Harry's nose, Draco Malfoy.

A green-robed witch stood over the prone form of Lucius Malfoy, pointed her wand at him and said a fierce: "_Ennervate_!"

The man jolted into full awareness and reflexively reached for his wand, which was, understandably, not present.

"I will have you fired, woman!" he spat at the Healer, who looked back at him dispassionately, unimpressed by his temper-tantrum.

"I followed the orders my Lords have given me," she replied. "If you disagree, take it up with them." She turned around and strode away in the direction of another patient in need of attention.

Lucius looked around, frowned at the sight of his son and finally accepted his wife's hand, allowing her to help him stand. It was not very gentlemanly of him, but Harry could see that the stay in Azkaban had taken its toll on the usually impeccable aristocrat. At any rate, it was almost funny to see him with dirty, knotted hair.

"Lords?" Lucius asked of Narcissa, sounding as if he hadn't used his throat but for screaming in weeks. "A plural?"

Narcissa sighed. "Lucius, you remember when my mother spoke of the second Dark Lord…"

Odd, how history – and, most likely Tom, since he had written it for this group of people – had changed his title from 'the Dark Lord's second' to 'the second Dark Lord'.

"Your mother was a deranged hag, Narcissa," Lucius replied. Harry privately agreed and let himself enjoy the mortally offended expression on the woman's face. "I don't believe a word that had come out of her mouth, and therefore very much doubt that there had ever been anyone like that. The Dark Lord doesn't share power-"

"You are wrong, Lucius," Harry said calmly.

He cherished the stunned silence suddenly pervading the room. Faces turned in the direction of his shadow and those who recognised him bowed. The group recently freed from Azkaban watched on in confusion, although some copied their compatriots in bowing to be on the safe side.

"There had once been a second Dark Lord and there is one now."

"My Lord!" Aurelius called out, probably to inform Harry about what had transpired in the meantime, but fell silent when Harry raised his hand, clearly visible because he wasn't wearing his gloves. Indeed, the Death Eaters couldn't have made out much of him – only the hands and, perhaps, his chin. Antonin, sitting comfortably in a conjured armchair, was laughing, but Harry tolerated it from him as long as he was doing so without attracting undue attention.

"You!" Draco yelled. "You're just a-"

Narcissa slapped him before he could finish the sentence, but the damage was done.

Harry stood rapidly, remaining shrouded in the semi-darkness. "I don't like using Unforgivables, little Malfoy," he spoke, controlling his annoyance enough that no one could gauge just how offended he really was, "that, however, doesn't mean that I cannot use them, or would not use them when I deem it prudent." He was used to this kind of verbal abuse from Draco, but the moron would have to learn that it was a thing of the past.

He paused and found it most satisfying when the convention stood in respectful stillness, just as they would in front of Tom. Apparently, Harry still had it. Even Antonin was watching with only a glint of amusement in his eyes.

When the tension reached its peak, Harry met Draco's eyes. "Now, will you repeat what it was you intended to say?"

Draco remained silent, scared rather than ashamed of his conduct. The little snot was just as bad as Lucretia. Harry spared a glance at both Malfoy parents – Lucius was watching the byplay with interest, trying to assess this knew 'Lord,' while Narcissa had averted her face from Draco at an angle that allowed her to still watch, but made it apparent that she refused any responsibility for his actions. Harry had seen her try hard enough to make Draco shape up, so he respected her lack of involvement in her son's misdemeanours.

"No?" Harry said, taking a step forward, which brought him to the edge of the shadow. It still shrouded him, yet his silhouette was distinguishable from the background. "I see that you do remember how that pain feels after all. Splendid, Malfoy. Incidentally, I am willing to let the offence slide. Are you willing to beg for it?"

It was the only way Harry could imagine getting through to the boy, if Cruciatus didn't work. He really, really didn't like using that curse, and humiliation would have left a much longer lasting impression.

Draco glanced at his mother, asking for advice. Apparently, it was too late for him, because Narcissa merely raised her eyebrows. Draco, shaking like a leaf, looked around the room and finally back at Harry. Nobody spoke to him; nobody gave him a sign. He had to decide for himself.

Eventually, drawing on the inbred arrogance, Draco shook his head.

"_Crucio_."

Draco fell, screaming and trashing. Lucius's emaciated features settled in a deep scowl; harsh lines crisscrossed his face and Harry found the look on him fetching – like a real human instead of a marble statue he used to resemble.

Tom had been right. Lucius's stay in Azkaban had done all the Malfoys some good.

Harry counted twenty seconds and cancelled the spell. Draco remained limp on the floor, sobbing and twitching. Lucius's face relaxed marginally – there was even a flash that might have passed for relief.

"Thank you, my Lord," Narcissa said softly, aware that the punishment was relatively light.

"Wait until we get home," Lucius growled at the form of his son. It didn't look like the family reunion was going to be very pleasant, especially for Draco.

"You…" the boy hissed, struggling to his knees, obviously not as badly damaged as he would have pretended to be, had there not been a strong enough motivation for him to do otherwise. He was glaring at his father quite fiercely. "You told me to always defy him!" Realising that spittle was flying from his mouth as he spoke, Draco recovered a handkerchief and very haughtily wiped his mouth, standing tall, albeit on unsteady feet, and facing down Lucius.

Harry decided that was quite enough drama. "That may be so," he said, walking into the light. "Respect for your parents' wishes is well and good, little Malfoy, but you must learn to think for yourself. At the time your father gave you this command, I was an eleven-year-old child with little knowledge of magic. Now I demand subservience, from your father exactly as from you. You will learn to give it." The promise spoke clearly of more pain in retribution for every perceived offence, and Harry considered the matter closed. He looked away from the glaring boy to Lucius.

Lucius finally made out who Harry was. He staggered, catching himself on his wife's shoulder.

"…'cissa…"

It must have been hard for the man. He had spent more than three months in Azkaban, convicted with the help of a fifteen-year-old half-baked wizard, only to get out and find that he had to bow to the same wizard, who had inexplicably aged in the meantime.

"Narcissa, take your family home," he ordered. "In fact, all of you go home. Rest, call a Healer if you need additional medical attention. The next meeting will be…" he paused when he felt a familiar presence enter the room, but then continued anyway, knowing that Tom would cut in if he felt anything was being done not to his satisfaction, "the day after tomorrow. If you need explanations, ask your fellow Death Eaters."

Tom used his magic to forcefully clear his way to the dais. He was wearing a cloak with his hood up but, with his aura almost palpable, no one doubted his identity. He received bows even more readily than Harry had.

"Does anything require my immediate attention?" Tom asked the crowd, striding through the aisle in their middle.

Silence was his only response. Once it was obvious that there were no hesitating men or women with pressing issues, Harry took the opportunity to deliver his last directive of the day: "I don't want to see another unmarked child in a meeting unless their participation is pre-approved."

The entire congregation bowed yet again, this time to show their understanding of and compliance with the order. Tom, ascending the stairs of the dais, caught Harry's eyes and flexed his fingers.

Harry nodded. "Dismissed!"

The Malfoys were amongst the first to be gone, while the members of the Innermost Circle waited to be the last, which was a rule Tom had instilled as Voldemort and actually one of the few things Harry considered sensible and useful.

"Theodore," Harry called when the room was mostly empty. The two hosts walked forward, but Harry sent the older one back with a gesture. He regarded the younger one closely. There was a bit of blood on his sleeves and Harry would have bet that the boy had been helping the Healers. That cinched his decision. "I will speak to you tomorrow. Do not yet return to Hogwarts."

"Yes, my Lord," Theodore said quietly and went off to join his father.

Harry followed practically on his heels, coming to stand in front of Antonin, who was presently getting rid of his seat. Upon closer examination, it was clear that the man had injured his left leg – hence probably the reason he had risked conjuring a chair for the duration of the 'debriefing.'

"Antonin," he said quietly, so that Avery and the Lestranges wouldn't hear. "I just want to warn you. I consider myself indebted to you, and so I give you a lot of leave, but that decision in no way extends to Tom." He was reasonably certain that Tom would have allowed the man to sit, or even sent a Healer to him straightaway, had they known about his injury; that lenience, however, wouldn't have extended to openly laughing at the proceedings.

Antonin's eyes glittered with his nowadays almost constant amusement. "Thank you, my Lord. It is an honour to me that you care so much as to give me that warning. But rest assured, I know both my Lords better than anyone else knows them." He bowed, despite the pain it had obviously caused him, repeated the same in Tom's direction, and left.

Harry and Tom remained alone. The walls of the vast empty hall echoed the sound of heels of Tom's boots hitting the floor. As the two of them were now, solitary in the familiar place they thought of as theirs despite it, in fact, belonging to the Nott family, it seemed as if the time had stopped for them. The room had changed little in fifty years, Tom even less, and Harry hadn't changed at all. For a moment it was hard to believe that outside of these walls there were children and grandchildren of their peers, that Dumbledore was on his way to lifelong detainment without the need for a trial, that the Minister was practically a puppet on their strings… It was all too shocking, and Harry would need time to wholly grasp it.

"What was that about?" Tom asked, finding himself within touching distance from Harry, who promptly turned around and pulled off Tom's hood. The man's face was pale and drawn, lines of worry and exhaustion almost as deep as Malfoy's. His hair was in disarray that, rather than fetching, made him look even worse off.

"He did something for me, something I wasn't able to do-"

"Harry!" Tom barked impatiently. "Tell me."

Harry had hoped it wouldn't come to this. It wasn't as if he was afraid to tell Tom, not at all, but he felt reluctant to speak of it. This was an agreement between him, Antonin and the late Theodore, concerning secrets that weren't Harry's to tell. It also painfully reminded him of the fact that while Tom might have still looked twenty-five, he was in fact sixty-eight, and those years in between had been spent terrorising the wizarding world and his Death Eaters alike.

"Harry!"

Tom was becoming annoyed with him. Harry could understand – it was late, they had been in a battle today, they had had an encounter with Dumbledore, they had dealt with hundreds of dementors… they should have been resting.

"Not here," Harry protested.

Tom, without a word, gripped his arm and Apparated them to the Green Suite. Perhaps it was time for them to select one of their own estates to move in. It wouldn't be the same as before – Harry recalled the pile of rubble that was all that remained of their house – but at least there would be the yearned-for bit of freedom.

Harry called a house elf and requested tea. It would have been alcohol, were it not for Tom's aversion to it. Tom, while waiting for the elf to return, took off his cloak and started disrobing. Harry, after a brief hesitation, followed the example.

In about thirty seconds they had their tea there and Tom pinned Harry with a glare that could not be withstood for much longer.

Harry took a sip of the hot drink and carefully set the cup back on the table. "I asked him and Theodore to stick with you through the decades of madness. You needed someone to take care of you and I more or less trusted them. Antonin has done so, all this time, even though I know it pained him."

Tom scowled and closed his eyes, trying to recall the events of 1947 before Harry's forced departure. He had, however, never paid close enough attention to his followers to be aware of their emotions, except of those he could exploit. That someone would be willing to subject themselves to torture for a vision not their own was barely comprehensible to him.

"Make sense of this for me. I don't remember our years together quite as clearly as you do."

This was exactly what Harry didn't want to get into. He would do so, of course, but it still felt a bit like a betrayal of confidence… even if, theoretically, there had been no confidence, since he had found this information by spying. He tried to rationalise his decision to himself while watching the pretty shapes growing over the desk, until he realised those shapes were frost flowers spreading from Tom's hands.

He shuddered.

"Antonin had," he spoke softly, hoping that Tom wouldn't be too angry with him for the procrastination, "at one point, been in love with you. I don't think he ever stopped caring about you. I trust him with your welfare."

There. It was out now, and Harry watched Tom's face, searching for some kind of acknowledgement. He found nothing. Tom's face was, uncharacteristically in private, inscrutable.

The frost flowers melted and a tiny trickle of water ran down the leg of the table.

"Give me a moment," Tom said, walked over to the bathroom and disappeared within, shutting and locking the door behind himself. Harry focused on the bond, trying to gauge what was it Tom was feeling that drove him away and whether he was cross with him, but the connection was closed off from the other side.

Harry sank into the sofa that usually neither of them used. He pulled his knees to his chest, resting his chin on one of them. He felt too old and too young at the same time, if it was even possible. Their revolution was underway, due to a series of mistakes on his part that turned out to be to their advantage, but Harry felt alone… like he used to feel before Tom. Maybe people normally felt like that and he just associated it with adolescence… but, for Salazar's sake, he was twenty! That wasn't yet old enough to be able to direct the world. He could be the second Dark Lord, but not without Tom being the first.

Harry was instantly ashamed of himself. He wasn't supposed to feel like this – he wasn't supposed to be weak.

He stood up and headed for the bedroom in hope that he would be back to normal after a good night's rest. The bathroom door opened and Tom practically staggered out, looking haggard like Harry had only rarely experienced him before. Harry did an about-face and met Tom in the middle of the sitting room, pulling him to his chest and holding him so tight that it must have been uncomfortable, but there was no protest voiced, so he just stood and waited for some kind of explanation of what had happened. It was not forthcoming, but he could feel a wave of despair coming from his husband, and it was obvious that Tom was only angry with himself, probably for something that had not been his fault in the first place… so Harry kept on waiting.

Tom Apparated them about seven yards over, to the bedroom.

Harry let go of him, bemused, looking for some kind of a clue about what was expected of him.

Tom carefully, holding onto the bedpost, sank down onto the mattress. The tidy covers, arranged by the house elves, creased and crinkled around the edges. Harry still waited, worried about the way Tom's eyes were fixed on the rug. Tom never kept his head down.

"You were right," Tom said after a while. His voice was raspy and weak. "I was a monster."

There was nothing Harry could say to disprove that. The disassociation between Tom and Voldemort wasn't nearly complete enough to claim that it was a different person that had done the atrocities Tom could remember. Harry would be lying if he said it didn't matter.

He remained silent, racking his mind for something he could do to make it easier for Tom. In a way, he was responsible for the fact that it had happened. He had known exactly what he had been doing when he had married Tom. He had known there would be Voldemort. He had known what Voldemort would be like.

He deserved to be locked away in Nurmengard with Dumbledore.

"Not only to… enemies," Tom continued in the same harsh whisper, forcing Harry to deal with these demons before he could banish his own. "I tortured them, mercilessly, for the minutest of mistakes, sometimes for invented mistakes. My followers died around me and I didn't care. They feared and reviled me… I didn't care as long as there were new ones to take their place. And look at them – sadists and radicals. The few sane are those that believed in your return."

Harry leant down, cupped Tom's face in both hands and forced him to look up. "Tom… Tom, what brought this on?"

Tom sneered and Harry felt another wave of mental pain pass through him. "I killed Theodore. In a fit of rage. I've killed one of my most faithful. For nothing." There was a hint of incredulity in Tom's voice.

He had a huge mental weakness now – one they had decided to call Voldemort. Tom refused to use the name nowadays, due to the associations, but Harry had never realised just how crippling those memories were. He would have to watch out for signs of these lapses and find ways to allay them.

Harry closed the space between his and Tom's face, hoping that perhaps intimacy would work to at least calm the man, if not actually make him feel better. There was a hint of salt in the corner of Tom's mouth; Harry lapped it up before delving past Tom's lips. Annoyed by his partner's lack of participation, he moved forwards, braced his knees on the bed on the sides of Tom's hips and, forced Tom to tilt his head further back. His grip tightened so much that the nails of his thumbs dug into Tom's cheeks.

Finally, with his neck bent backwards to the point of snapping, Tom gave in and engaged in the kiss. Harry loosened his hold enough to make it enjoyable for both of them, smoothing over the cuts on Tom's face. He wouldn't have Tom going mad again. Not as long as he was here.

Harry pushed his husband deeper into the covers and slid his right palm down the thin chest, pressing down on the last pairs of ribs; they bent inwards under the force. Tom choked a little and Harry let his hand further down, mapping the sharp hipbones, then hooking his forearm under Tom's knee and pushing his leg up, as far as Tom's trousers allowed it.

Tom rapidly twisted his head to the side, breaking the kiss, and hoarsely whispered: "Will you hurt me?"

Harry pulled away so that he and Tom could look into each other's eyes. "Do you want me to?"

"Yes."

Harry nodded. He didn't want to cause more pain to Tom than the man already had to endure, but he had always known that the position of a Dark Lord's lover and second would require him to do many things that went against his wishes.

He recovered his dagger from the sheath on his belt and tightened his grip when Tom's eyes went wide and his body tensed in Harry's arms. Fear was palpable in the air, would have been even if Harry hadn't been able to feel it freezing through their bond. Tom's heart sped up; his breath hitched and he began to tremble as Harry traced his jaw with the razor-sharp blade.

The dagger paused at the tip of Tom's jaw and after a moment continued down along his throat, leaving a small incision over the Adam's apple when Tom unexpectedly swallowed. Harry bit down on the side of Tom's neck; this time Tom wised up and didn't move at all, fearful of the nearness of the weapon to his jugular.

Harry moved to the side, off of Tom's chest, putting a lot of his weight on the thigh under him. He shifted the dagger to his right hand, letting go of the leg he had been holding onto, and followed an imaginary line down Tom's breastbone, cutting the tunic, nicking the skin every time Tom breathed in. He didn't stop until the garment was completely open, then threw the dagger away and set to licking off the little blood that welled from the snicks while his hands worked on opening Tom's trousers.

Only now, in the absence of the weapon, Tom started becoming aroused. Harry braced himself and bit down on the inside of Tom's left thigh.

Tom sobbed.

"Does it hurt yet?"

Tom nodded.

Harry sat up, ignoring the tear-track leading from the corner of Tom's eye to his temple and disappearing in his hair. "Strip."

Tom shuddered but obeyed. The sensation of dread coming through their bond lessened and Harry, feigning calmness, set to removing his own clothes, keeping his back turned to his husband. He shouldn't have been put into this position – giving comfort to the Dark Lord – especially when he was already feeling too fragile himself. He wanted to curl up and cry…

But Tom needed Harry to hurt him, so that was what Harry would do.

x

The sparks emanating from the cauldron were extinguished. A surge of white steam billowed thickly, obliterating everything in front of Harry, so he couldn't see anything but vapour hanging in the air…

Then, through the mist in front of him, he saw, with an icy surge of terror, a dark outline of a man, tall and skeletally thin, rising slowly from inside the cauldron. A high, cold voice spoke from behind the steam and, after a moment that only served to strain Harry's nerves to the point of breaking, the thin man stepped out from his vessel and closer to Harry… and Harry stared into a face whiter than a skull with wide, livid scarlet eyes and a nose flat as a snake's with slits for nostrils… and before Harry could move, before he even thought of defending himself, he had been hit by the Cruciatus curse. The pain was so intense… all-consuming… white-hot knives piercing every inch of his skin, his head was going to burst…

Then he was screaming-

A sharp slap made Harry open his eyes. He froze, confused by the sudden change of his surroundings. It was dark and he was lying on his back on something much softer than the ground, and above him there was a pale face-

He flinched, just before his brain jump-started and informed him that this was Tom, not Voldemort. He was gripped by an urge to giggle, and almost gave in, but seeing as Tom raised his hand to slap him again, he refrained in favour of catching Tom's wrist before the blow fell.

Harry ignored the stinging in his cheek and rolled them over, hovering over Tom only for as long as he needed to make sure that last evening had not left him with any serious injuries, and then lay down, burying his face in Tom's nape, breathing the familiar scent, tinged with fear and blood.

The tendons in Tom's neck flexed as if he tried to say something but changed his mind in the last instant. Harry blindly reached out, sought Tom's hand, laced their fingers together and thought about how much he loved Tom, hoping that it would be enough reassurance for both of them.


	9. Recuperation

Chapter Eight: Recuperation

x

Just before the dawn Tom woke them with his own nightmare. Shaking and sweating, he stumbled into the bathroom to throw up. Harry followed him as soon as he managed to rouse himself to semi-consciousness. He felt possibly worse than he had felt the previous evening, and sincerely hoped that this was all just a reaction to their encounter with dementors. He couldn't imagine having to deal with such a reaction long-term.

He found Tom kneeling in front of the toilet with his eyes closed and mouth half-opened, trying to breathe in as deeply as possible. Harry flushed the toilet, put his arm around Tom's middle and pulled him up, dragging the two of them into the shower. He held Tom against the wall while he fiddled with the taps, and it somewhat surprised him when he felt arms around his shoulders and, a moment later, Tom's head coming to rest against his collar-bone.

They were both in a right state.

Cool water began to rain on them from the showerhead, but Tom wasn't letting go, so Harry tried to convince himself he was content just standing there for a while. The bond gradually awoke, projecting half-forgotten terrors that came back to haunt them and a kind of hunger for something spiritual that Harry couldn't identify well enough to provide.

After a while they both started shivering and Harry turned the water warmer, which, apparently, aggravated some of Tom's superficial injuries. There were still the shallow cuts on his chest and a few bite-marks. Harry hoped that his casual knowledge of Healing spells would be enough to mend those, but first Tom would have had to un-stick himself.

Just as he thought that, Tom pushed himself away from Harry's chest and grumbled something uncomplimentary about himself that Harry didn't care to understand. It was too dark in the room to make out Tom's expression, but his discontent was palpable.

"I don't have time for a fucking stress disorder!" he growled, letting his head fall back against the tile. He absently scratched at the scabs on his chest.

Harry batted his hand away before he managed to hurt himself worse. He could guess what Tom was thinking about. "You're not taking any potions."

"You can't order me around," Tom spat, glaring. His eyes were shining in the deep-blue dusk.

"Of course I can't," Harry agreed tonelessly. It was pointing out the obvious – no one and nothing could really control Tom – but the man sometimes allowed his pride and determination to get in the way of common sense. "But if you get addicted on top of everything, your body won't make it."

Harry loved that body, but even he couldn't deny that, physically, Tom was scarily frail. He had barely gained a pound since his restoration and was now weaker than he had been in school.

Faced with Tom's obstinacy, Harry was well nigh on helpless. "For Merlin's sake, have you looked into a mirror, Tom?" he insisted, shaking his head to get his wet bangs out of his eyes. "I've seen dementors with more flesh on them! I love you Tom, but if you die on me, I'm giving up on the Vision."

It sounded too much like blackmail to his ears, but in fact it was a mere warning. Tom was the power behind the revolution – he was the idea and the force. Without him the entire New Order would fall apart. On the off chance that the bond wouldn't kill him, too, Harry by himself wouldn't have the motivation required to keep it running. He needed Tom to realise this – to realise that his survival was essential for the survival of his Vision.

"I'm not going to be here forever!" Tom protested, finally deigning to look at Harry through the curtain of droplets between them.

"Well neither am I!" Harry shot back. "And Tom, if you've forgotten, I'm twenty-bloody-year-old! I can't always be your security blanket!"

Harry's knees gave out under him. He folded down onto the floor of the shower, drenched so much that if he was crying, no one could tell. And what if he was? He was tired and scared, and so was Tom, and they should have eaten some bloody chocolate last night before they went to sleep… He couldn't believe he was breaking down like this, but his lungs felt like they were being compressed inside his chest and he couldn't stand up and walk away because his legs refused to obey him.

Tom slapped him, like he did a few hours earlier from the nightmare, but this time Harry was already awake, so it didn't work. It seemed supremely unjust: here Harry was, giving all of himself that he could, and when it wasn't enough, instead of finding support he got slapped. He wished he could laugh at himself, but he really couldn't.

He sobbed.

"Harry… Harry!"

He sobbed again.

There was a flash of red light and darkness.

x

Harry awoke in a place so soft and warm that he in the first moment thought it had all been just a nightmare. He was disabused of the notion when he found Tom sitting on the side of the bed with his wand aimed at him.

"I apologise," Tom said. "I didn't know what to do with you, so I Stunned you. I've had a few hours to think about it and I am almost certain I know what happened."

Harry rolled to his side and watched as Tom got up, returned his wand into its holster, and walked over to the vanity, where he picked up a goblet. He carried it back, and waited for Harry to sit up before he handed it over.

"It shouldn't be too vile," he muttered. "It's mostly theobromine and sugar."

Harry drank it and had to concede that it really wasn't nearly as bad as it could have been. He handed the goblet back and settled against the headboard, watching Tom with careful neutrality. He had no idea what he should expect – had his breakdown exasperated his husband, or was it disregarded? The apology suggested that Tom wasn't too angry, but Harry hated being a disappointment – something that might have been instilled into him by the Dursleys.

"Yesterday has affected us both and I should have realised that I was not the only one with bad memories. That is what exacerbated this situation, is it not?"

"Probably," Harry agreed, frowning at how strange his own voice sounded to him.

Yes, without the encounter with dementors and the subsequent overthrow of Dumbledore, his feelings of inadequacy wouldn't have crippled him to this point. Now, with the potion already working, those feelings actually faded. He did deserve his post. He was just as essential for the New Order as Tom was.

"I felt depressed," he summed it up.

"As I thought. I abhor those things."

"There are not many of them left," Harry replied dryly. It still seemed surreal to him, but in the light of the day somehow more possible. How could he have been so stupid? Tom had told him from the beginning that attacking the prison would be insane. He had mucked it up. "I am a bloody idiot! Tom, next time I get a 'smart' idea just remind me of Azkaban, okay?"

Tom rubbed his temples and flopped down onto the bed with hilariously little grace, resting his head on Harry's stomach like he used to years ago, whenever they had found a rare moment of privacy in the Room of Requirement.

"Harry… you are the only one who could do a year's worth of work in a day and consider it a mistake."

Harry tentatively reached down and twined his fingers in Tom's hair. His only response was a soft hum. He still felt like he was lying on nails, but Tom's presence there gave him the prospect for the next day being better.

"Yes, and so very happy it has made us," he said softly.

Tom squeezed his eyes shut and then opened them again, staring at Harry imploringly. "I am not good at giving reassurance."

But he was bloody brilliant at restoring self-confidence. Harry practically soaked it up, pulling Tom off himself and kissing him quite thoroughly. Few minutes later, slightly out of breath but with renewed (if artificial) determination, Harry crawled out of the bed, ignoring Tom's inarticulate declaration of displeasure.

"Well, I've got work to do today-"

Tom didn't want to give in, which Harry could understand, but not really allow.

"We can keep Dumbledore where he is until tomorrow – provided that the elf was telling the truth."

Harry ignored the jab at Chatter and concentrated on how annoyed with the world he was. It worked perfectly – as long as he wasn't blubbering, he was in a proper Dark Lord mood. Hopefully the Death Eaters would be smart enough to show him the utmost respect or else get out of his way, because Harry definitely did have it in him today to try out some inventive curses.

"It has nothing to do with Dumbledore," he told Tom, who looked like a twisted picture of innocence, burrowed in the warm white bed linen where Harry's body had been a while ago. "By the way, I need a manual to the Dark Mark – what it is, how it works, how you create it." He paused in his search for fresh clothes, deciding to forgo the shower after the fiasco he had experienced there earlier. He was clean enough in his opinion… There. Odd, how even after his August shopping spree he seemed to have trouble finding clean undergarments. Apparently, it had little to do with what he actually owned, and much more with his lack of organisation. "How you undo it," he added when he remembered he had been saying something.

"What for?"

Harry was glad to hear that Tom didn't dismiss the idea outright. "I want someone Marked, but I don't trust Voldemort not to have twisted it."

Tom buried his face in the pillow and his entire body tensed. Harry made a step toward him, but he waved his hand dismissively.

"Just go."

x

Harry found Theodore Nott the Third on his way to the dining room. The boy was carrying a broom and had that wind-swept, pink-cheeked look that signified he had been flying. Harry sort of missed flying, but not enough to do anything about it.

"My Lord," the boy said calmly, offering a shallow bow. "You wished to speak to me today…?"

Harry nodded. He hadn't expected to happen upon Theodore so quickly, and dealing with Dumbledore clearly took precedence, but he was full of the take-charge kind of energy that made his veins thrum with the need to do something. This, at least, was something he could be reasonably sure he would manage without another of his trade-mark screw-ups.

"Go take a shower and meet me in the Victorian Salon in twenty minutes," Harry ordered and barely waited for an acknowledgement before he strode away in the direction of the meeting point he had designated.

The Salon was one of the more modern chambers in the Manor; Harry appreciated the relative comfort and style, and preferred to surround himself with it rather than the intimidating gothic megalomania better befitting a 'second Dark Lord.' He had a house elf bring him something to eat, but found he could not stomach it. He felt too queasy in the wake of his nightmare and so, apparently, did Tom, for the bond was transmitting a skin-crawling sensation.

Harry wished there was something he could do to make Tom brighten up, but even if he weren't drowning in depression himself, Tom wouldn't know how to accept such help any better than Harry would know how to help him.

"My Lord?" a wary voice inquired from the doorway.

Harry blinked, surprised at how long a time he had spent contemplating his and Tom's states of mind. He gestured toward an upholstered chair, close enough that he would be able to see Theodore's face even without his glasses, yet outside his reach. While the boy obeyed and, without a hint of nervousness, sank into the indicated seat, Harry set his spectacles down on the table by his left hand and rubbed his eyes.

Theodore reminded him a lot of young Tom – he had the countenance, the intelligence and the ambition. At sixteen they were both the quintessential Slytherins, perfectly aware of their abilities and determined to succeed in the future they have chosen for themselves. There was even a certain physical resemblance. The main difference, however, was that Theodore was a follower, whereas Tom couldn't have been anything but a leader.

Harry smiled. Theodore's presence was soothing. It amused and pleased Harry that the boy maintained a respectful silence while he waited for Harry to speak, and would have done so even if Harry had been in a much more stable mood.

"I know you have been groomed for service to Voldemort, Theodore. I have requested it of your grandfather personally." He wondered a little if the boy resented him for that. What little he remembered of his Gryffindor past led him to believe that teenagers despised being forced into roles by their parents, respectively guardians.

"That is not exactly correct, my Lord," the young man spoke, for the first time displaying traces of uncertainty. His eyes were pleading. "After Halloween 1981, my father didn't believe that the Dark Lord's sanity would ever be returned, my Lord. He relayed grandfather's tale to me, but allowed me to decide for myself whether I wanted to be a Death Eater instead of making it an obligation."

Harry could understand – and accept – that. Theodore the First had died before his grandson was born, and Theodore the Second had not experienced Tom ere his loss of sanity. However, the boy sitting vis-à-vis Harry had not taken the easy way out of the conflict; he chose to be involved, without any conditioning. He was either a spy, or a true believer in the Vision. Harry hoped to any listening deity that it was the second case.

"You have that choice, Theodore, and I mean it. It's not between the Mark and death as it might have been a few months ago. If you decide you don't want it, you can remain a supporter. It would mean that you could not get into the meetings for a while, and then only into select ones, but it is your choice." It was a weak attempt to convince the boy to stay where he was, and Harry knew it, but he rarely resorted to coercion and, frankly, he _wanted_ to trust this boy. That required allowing him the freedom of choice.

Once he recovered from his surprise, Theodore had difficulty suppressing his laughter. The worry vanished from his eyes, replaced with a spark of what Harry guessed to be _happiness_ as he slipped out of the chair, sat on his heels at Harry's feet and took Harry's hand into both of his. "I have always wanted to be a Death Eater, my Lord. The current situation has moreover made it into an enjoyable prospect." He leant forwards and touched his lips to Harry's wedding ring. "I am a fighter, my Lord, not a grunt-worker, nor a politician. Permit me to remain myself, and I will execute your will, _what ever_ it may be. Remain true to your Vision and allow me my soul, and I will pledge my body, mind and magic to you.

Harry was floored. He retracted his hand and stared into the boy's eyes.

Theodore in response immediately lowered his Occlumentic shields and bared his mind for Harry to access.

Harry skimmed its surface and was moved by the devotion he found.

"You need not give yourself to me, Theodore," he spoke, using shortness to disguise the unexpected emotionality. This was what he needed. Gone was the desperation borne of irrational feelings of inadequacy, along with the fear of failure. Here was the very proof that he made a lord his subjects were proud of; he inspired such devotion… "You already have my trust, as you have Tom's. But, reconsider: would you not rather pledge yourself to Tom? Spite the deceptive appearances, I am very much a Light wizard."

"The Light Lord," the boy replied with the tiniest wry smile. "Truthfully, I do not grasp the difference it would make for me. With a soul-bond between you so powerful that even lacking an anchor it turned a Killing Curse, there is no telling where one of you ends and the other begins. There is no 'between you'… my Lord."

Harry briefly closed his eyes and shook his head. There was a spot of truth to Theodore's spiel, even as it was largely idolised. "The Light and Dark factions of the Order will not be united for years – if ever. Do you believe you would be content amongst Light radicals?"

Theodore met Harry's eyes again, and his smile widened. "I do not doubt it."

x

Harry stood over the motionless form of Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore and, involuntarily, recalled the different ways he had viewed this man, this incredibly arrogant person who had assumed to shape more than just Harry's life, throughout his teen years. It was difficult to identify this perfectly powerless shell with the nigh omnipotent yet benign warlock that had 'rescued him from Voldemort's clutches.' For all Dumbledore's blinding radiance, he had likely been the one to send Harry into those clutches in the first place.

Once the Headmaster stopped glowing, he became a very ordinary old man, with wrinkled face and thinning hair that was grey rather than white as Harry used to recall it, a wizard whose gnarled hands were affected by arthritis and whose veins created ugly knots just under his skin. He was dangerous, yes, but suddenly Harry could see him as Tom always saw him – a manipulative, cunning, emulous and above all _flawed_ man.

This was not somebody Harry would have wanted to follow, although he didn't doubt that under different circumstances – i.e. his not falling through time – he would have, and most likely he would have died in service of ideals forced upon him. Dumbledore would have called Harry's enlightenment corruption; he would not have listened, understood or tolerated ideas other than his own. He would have- he _had_ denigrated the Vision, and called Tom an enemy for standing up for himself. Dumbledore condoned child-abuse in the name of the Greater Good and sent people into prison –Sirius was far from a unique occurrence – without giving a thought to whether he was acting within the law.

"Chatter!" Harry called, recounting his last thought. No, he would have to change his plans. While he did have the power to incarcerate Albus Dumbledore for the rest of his days, he also had the forbearance to do it _legally_.

A soft pop landed a grey-green knee-tall creature in front of himself. It bowed and straightened again, tennis-ball eyes practically popping out of its head as it quivered in fear. "I-inky is s-sorry, Master Lord Harry!"

Going on the assumption that Inky was the house elf's name, Harry granted his forgiveness for the unknown misconduct and questioned the elf on the whereabouts of Chatter.

"Chatter is being resting, Master Lord Harry. Inky is most sorry, Master Lord Harry, but Chatter is being having no rest in days and she is ordering Inky to guard prisoner in her stead! Inky is not letting prisoner get away!"

Harry nodded and tried to hide his frown, lest he be subjected to more grovelling. He appreciated forthrightness and assertiveness in house elves (which made Chatter his favourite among the staff) and the servile defensiveness this specimen badgered him with rather aggravated him.

"Tell her to find me when she wakes. Do _not_ wake her earlier." Chatter was much too useful and much too _able_ to be denied the time necessary for her to recuperate.

"Master Lord Harry is too-"

Harry had no idea what he was deemed to be this time, for he slammed the door behind himself, ignoring the yammering for fear that he would have lost whatever positive effect his meeting with Theodore had on him. The day was pretty much lost already anyway, and he was becoming frustrated with the lack of progress.

x

Tom wasn't in the Green Suite when Harry returned to change; in fact, he wasn't anywhere within the Manor. Harry barely even considered whether he was going to look for him on the grounds, where he could sense him if he extended himself. He _wanted_ to be with Tom right now.

Over the past month, he had very nearly forgotten what this was like; he craved his husband's presence and was reasonably certain that Tom was feeling the same. The bond hardly ever left their feelings one-sided.

He shed his lordly robe and pulled on what he thought of as his work-clothes, forgoing the cloak since it was neither cold outside, nor was he going to be seen in public anytime soon.

He Apparated part of the way and walked the rest.

Tom was standing on the shore of a pond hidden in the middle of a largish grove. He was looking into the distance but, as Harry knew him, was in fact lost in his head. He had that typical thinking pose, with his arms crossed in front of his chest and his left hand closed around his right triceps. "Is it not stupefying?" Tom spoke plaintively as Harry approached and stood beside him. "Not a trace of magic anywhere around – not in the water, in the flora nor in the fauna."

He was right, naturally – there was no magic except two wizards anywhere in the immediate vicinity.

"In a way it is relaxing," Harry noted, searching Tom's face for a reaction. Tom loved magic… more than he was willing to admit.

However, there was no response. Harry was fond of silence, after so many years spent within constant bustle, but even silence sometimes became oppressive. He didn't want to feel uncomfortable in the presence of the one man he loved.

"Talk to me, Tom."

The Dark Lord – for he even now had his presence, his charisma and the sensation of power around him – looked at him, mildly surprised. Possibly, he had not realised the effect his taciturnity had on Harry. He pressed an unhurried kiss to Harry's lips to reassure him that the problem was not between them. He was silently reassuring Harry that they could face that problem together; Harry took that to mean that they could conquer it.

Still, he didn't speak.

"What did you dream about?" Harry decided to be direct. It partially worked.

Tom directed him to hook his arm under Tom's, and set out on a dirt path in the direction of the Manor. After a few steps he finally spoke: "The bombing of London, 1941. It makes you lose respect for human life when you see how easily it can be snuffed out." A bitter smile tugged onto the corners of his mouth. "That's all a human is – flesh and bones and liters of blood."

It was a truth Harry didn't quite know how to dispute. One spell – a motion of a finger, even – was all it took to kill someone. It made all striving seem vain and success taste like ashes when one faced the reality of death head on.

"And a soul," he said quietly. There had to be something that made people more… durable. More important, less ephemeral…

"And a soul," Tom agreed. Having had split his in order to achieve relative immortality, he couldn't really protest that claim.

Harry moved a little closer; Tom welcomed him against his side, likely drawing onto his presence to give him the grounding he needed when speaking of his nightmares.

"I was fourteen at the time," he stated, speaking oddly without inflection, as though he could hide from Harry what he was feeling. "It was after my third year at Hogwarts. There were dozens of children, from two to seventeen, all of us cramped in this dark, wet, smelly cellar. We couldn't move, couldn't sleep… We were scared stiff and some of them pissed themselves when the planes flew over us and it stank like nothing else… And we couldn't get out of there. The matrons promised to trash bloody anyone who spoke up."

Harry with a slightly hysterical sense of irony realised that they both had been dreaming of when they had been fourteen – one of them of Voldemort, the other of the Blitz.

"We sat there in silence, for hours," Tom continued in a faraway yet at the same time stridently present voice. "I wasn't even there for the worst part of it – the heaviest attacks had stopped mid-May. They had done the same thing in winter, at all times of the day… sometimes they'd been hidden there for days on end, kids were dying from dehydration…" He took a harsh breath and sneered. "And the reverent wizards, safe in their magical castle, sent me back to that place, _year after year_…"

Harry shuddered. It was perfectly understandable that Tom had become a little twisted after living through that. It would have been understandable even if he had simply hated humankind as a whole, but wanting to build a better world was at least something that gave him direction.

Harry wondered if every time Tom spoke of the Vision, he remembered that scene.

"I've seen corpses that summer. It changes your view of the universe when you see a dead body. You can grasp how simple killing someone is – and let me tell you, it _is_ simple. I felt nothing when I did in the Riddles. There was no satisfaction in it, just as there was no disgust. It was of no consequence. It meant nothing to me, because by that time even the idea of my mother meant nothing to me. She was just another dead body, like those in the streets after the bombing."

Harry could honestly say that he was not the least bit surprised. He didn't feel quite the same way about people, death and killing, but then, he had not experienced bombing nor seen that many corpses. Tom was aware of the fact that his lack of sensibility in this made him a less than desirable leader, and that he needed Harry to temper his propensity for needless slaughter. Put into perspective like this, Harry found his yesterday's breakdown nearly laughable.

"I don't think about my parents anymore," he offered in return for Tom's confession. As far as he was concerned, the murder of Lily and James Potter by Voldemort didn't figure between them. It barely had from the beginning, truly. "For as long as I can remember, they haven't been a part of my life. Sure, I'm told I'm alive thanks to their sacrifice, but it's all too abstract. It's hard for me to understand that they were actually real people – flesh, blood, soul… everything." He was intellectually aware that they had existed, of course, but he lacked the emotional ties he would have created to them.

"They were. And they were just as easily killed as anybody else." Trust Tom to put the most morbid – and pragmatic – spin on it he could.

Harry had to be pretty twisted, too, because he sensed the irony in the statement. He knew he should have been appalled; instead he shrugged and slowed their pace. "It's not their death that I regret. It's that they weren't there when I needed them."

"I know exactly what you mean," Tom replied with a hint of smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes.

Harry was once again struck by just how beautiful the man was, regardless of the cesspool of horror stewing in the back of his mind. "In a way it's comforting to know that I won't ever be alone like that. I have you… and then I'll be dead and it won't matter anyway."

Tom's smile vanished, replaced with the emotionless mask he used to hide fear and depression. "That's what I thought, Harry," he snarled, wanting to hurt something but restraining himself from taking it out on Harry. "That… _that's_ why it is so difficult for me to trust – not you, but trust that certainty. I once believed I wouldn't be alone again. And I relied on it. And…"

"Then I was gone," Harry filled in, his heart dropping. It had been easy for him – going to sleep in 1947 and waking up in 1996; the couple of days before he and Tom were reunited amounted to nothing. Tom, on the other hand… it didn't bear thinking.

"Yes," Tom said. "It's not your fault. It's really neither of us' fault."

Even the most powerful wizards experienced helplessness. Maybe it benefited them, kept them from becoming too arrogant, but Harry wished it had been less painful, less _damaging_ to Tom. He wished, uncharacteristically, that he could torture and kill someone for what had been done to Tom.

"It's fault of the fucker who sent me into past, and I can't even really hate the bastard, because otherwise you and I wouldn't have happened and… the entire fucking universe would have gone a different way!" Harry, like Tom, didn't deal well with helplessness.

Tom snorted, amused by Harry's blow-up. "I just hope we won't find in fifty years that it was, in the end, ourselves who sent you. Predestination tends to be cruel like that."

Harry gulped. "I don't think it was… will be… us." He hoped. He accepted that love hurt, but had to wonder whether he loved Tom so little – or so much – that the amount of pain and terror would have made their relationship worth it still.

Tom seemed to follow his thoughts. "Can you honestly say that you would not send yourself back, if it was up to you?"

Honestly? "No." Harry shook his head. He couldn't imagine what his life would have been like without Tom in it. If he would have had a life at all.

"Then it is your wish to disclaim responsibility for that choice speaking." Sometimes Tom's real age was almost palpable.

"I would have liked to believe I was brave enough to make my choices." Harry drew onto his Gryffindor side, because what else did he have to match Tom's seven decades of experience? In cunning and ambition they were fairly matched.

"Well, you don't have to, yet."

Harry got the feeling that he unintentionally succeeded in amusing Tom out of his contemplative mood.

"And, as your journey back in time already happened, you either won't have to make it at all, or you'll find the necessary determination by the time it's needed."

Since that was a tautology, Harry figured further input from him wasn't necessary. He searched for a different topic to avoid thinking about whether he would be capable of making that decision one day, and what effect it would have on him.

They stepped out from among the last young birches and the Manor towered over them, pleasantly aged, in contrast to Malfoy properties that were always sparkling too much for Harry's comfort.

Tom pulled Harry to a halt. "I don't feel like meeting anyone right now."

Harry hadn't yet finished nodding when Tom Apparated them straight into the Green Suite. As if a switch was flipped, Tom's expression changed. He deftly unhooked the clasps of Harry's doublet and divested him of his tunic, careful of the hidden athame that was the next to go. Harry, bemused and entertained at the same time, obliged by taking off his belt – that particular accessory was as good as deadly to _anyone_ who wasn't himself – while Tom unwove the spells on his own robe and absently pulled it off. It pooled on the floor, but Tom didn't even glance at it as he stepped out of the ring of silk and brocade and put his hands on Harry's shoulders.

He tried to push him down, and Harry couldn't stop a sudden laughter from bubbling out. "You said you wanted me to 'never kneel before you'," he protested through snickers, playing with the rim of Tom's braccae.

"Heathen…" the Dark Lord muttered, undarklordishly unwound enough to allow his frustration to show. "Why are you not always so obedient?"

"You wouldn't like me if I was obedient," Harry teased, ghosting his fingers over the obviously tented front of the trousers. He wondered if he could reduce Tom to pleading…?

"I appreciate obedient people," Tom muttered. He leant forward, putting his lips a scant inch from Harry's ear, and lowered his voice to a mock-conspiratorial whisper: "But it's true that if you had been one of them, I couldn't have loved you."

Harry had no chance to avoid a nonverbal wandless Jelly-legs jinx from this distance, but the backhanded proclamation of Tom's feelings was more than worth it.


	10. Politics

Chapter Nine: Politics

x

Harry blinked when a cold breeze touched his stomach. It was dark; the only thing he could discern was a shadow moving about in the room. His stubbornly asleep brain refused to inform him about what was going on, so he remained lying and squinting until, a moment later, the shadow turned to him, took two steps forwards and braced his knee on the side of the bed.

To Harry's credit, he realised it was Tom _before_ he was kissed.

"S'time?" he asked less than loquaciously in a hoarse whisper. Somehow the seemingly deep night made him speak quietly.

Tom pressed his forehead against Harry's solar plexus and remained motionless for a while, gathering the will to stand again. "Half past four. Don't get up. There's no need for _both_ of us to bother."

"Love you," was as much as Harry was currently able to say on his feelings.

Tom snorted. With a grimace he lifted himself into a vertical position. "Yes, well… _I_ get up _very_ early in the morning to save you from having to do so."

Harry closed his eyes and burrowed under the covers. "Love you all th'more."

x

Not setting a time for the meeting that day caused many a proactive Death Eater to roam the hallways of Nott Manor as early as half past eight in the morning. Harry had to cast a Disillusionment Charm on himself to avoid displaying bleariness unbefitting of his stature on his way to the Baroque Balcony. Luckily, he was the only one aside from Tom and the two Theodores with right of entrance there, and he knew for a fact that the three were tied up elsewhere (even if he had but a dim idea about where exactly).

The Balcony offered a clear view of nearly the entire Hall while allowing the observer to remain hidden from sight. It had been added some time over the past fifty years, because when Harry had left in 1947, there wasn't even the impetus of an idea for it – the style it had been built in was merely an illusion of antiquity.

Harry settled in a chair that was much more comfortable than it looked and requested breakfast, including an overlarge mug of coffee with milk. It was delivered moments later by one of the elves that didn't have enough of a personality for anybody to differentiate them. Looking at the plate full of bakery, Harry wondered if Tom had eaten yet today. Most likely not.

He scowled and set his jaw to prevent his teeth from gritting. An idea occurred to him. Maybe, just maybe, there was a way to make Draco Malfoy useful while at the same time teaching him humility. It was quite ugly, and the notion might have stemmed from the years when Draco had been Harry's school rival, but Harry reasoned it out to himself, and it seemed to make sense.

He didn't know the elder Malfoys well enough to be able to anticipate their reactions, but he imagined that they would both be livid at the same time as they would see the benefits – Narcissa Draco's, Lucius his own.

Harry was, in fact, smirking when Tom managed to extract himself from his obligations in the bowels of the Manor and found him on the Balcony.

"Anything interesting happen in my absence?" Tom asked glumly and aimed for the next armchair, to which Harry reacted by grasping his robe as he passed by and tugging him down into his lap. He ignored the obligatory huffing and a stern admonishment about such displays in public advertising weakness, inviting alternatively derision and familiarity, and assorted complaints. No one could see them anyway.

Admittedly, mere acknowledgement of the bond would have been enough information for a sufficiently clever dissenter determined to subvert them.

"Jugson attempted to harass Antonin by alluding to his supposed homosexuality… and submissiveness," Harry teased.

Tom failed to stop himself from snorting. "I could take that personally… and it has been a while since I've had the chance to truly torture someone." The briefest hint of frustration surfaced in his voice.

Harry understood that Tom was stressed, but perhaps he had underestimated just how much.

"If you believe it would help you," Harry said neutrally, and pushed the plate closer to Tom's hand. "Eat something."

"I'm not hungry," Tom protested, pulling away.

Harry relented because he could tell that his husband was uncomfortable in the position.

Tom relocated to the chair he had originally selected and looked ready to fall asleep where he was.

"I'm sure," Harry agreed. "You are under a lot of pressure, and it's natural that your appetite would fade. Nevertheless, you _need_ the energy. Think of what kind of example you would be giving if you fainted in the middle of a meeting. How would that be for an illusion of no weakness?" Not to mention that Harry was virtually certain that Tom had taken a dose of Pepper-up Potion, and it was a strain on his already weakened digestive tract to drink it on an empty stomach.

Tom glared at him. Harry was, for once, affected by it. Tom's glares should not be that bleary, that apathetic. Harry had thought – admittedly idealistically – that after yesterday they would both return to normal, but Tom appeared to have been genuinely hurt somewhere along the way. Harry cursed himself for not having noticed sooner.

"I would not faint in a meeting," Tom claimed haughtily.

Harry acknowledged the statement; it rang too hollow for him to bother to dispute it. Dense as he was in emotional matters, he figured Tom needed support now and arguing with him – especially reminding him of his own vulnerability – would not have been helpful.

"I believe you," Harry said instead. "Don't chance it, though. You _know_ that you require sustenance to function."

Tom silently nodded and picked a scone from the plate. Then he rose and with a half-hearted gesture to Harry left the room.

Harry had a sinking feeling that Tom was going to dispose of the food rather than eat it, and resolved to conspire with house-elves and possibly draft Draco Malfoy for a more menial role than he could envision himself in.

x

Harry spent the morning in preparations for his afternoon, going over the information on the twenty-one families he had picked as the representative sample of the Light side. He had a fire-call from Scrimgeour's assistant who, pale and shaking, informed him that the acting Minister was unable to clear his schedule and would not be attending the meeting; otherwise his time had passed in solitude that felt unfair compared to the stress he felt seeping through from Tom's side of the bond.

He promised himself to take on more responsibilities. He could not represent the New Order nearly as well as Tom did it, but there was no reason whatsoever why he couldn't have handled the tracking and detainment of the individuals they had promised to hand over to the Ministry.

Just past noon Harry decided that it was the highest time for Tom to have a break – a real one, not five minutes stolen to catch a breath – and walked into the ballroom. He passed empty conjured benches, then rows of seated supporters (he was fairly certain that few of these people were Marked), and briefly halted next to the group of Petrified and Bound captives, all of whom were awake and aware. They were either glaring at Tom for what they perceived as betrayal or pretending they hadn't noticed their predicament.

Tom was speaking with Lucius Malfoy, who was looking a damn sight better than he had the last time Harry had seen him. He was standing more or less straight, leaning on his cane that had been prolonged to actually fit his height for once, and holding a goblet in his left hand. His hair had re-gained the customary Malfoy shine, either from a glamour or as the result of some kind of _magical_ treatment. Still, there was, despite all this effort, an air of convalescence around him.

"My wife mentioned to me that Severus was dead," Malfoy said, his voice a little lower than it used to be, as though his self-confidence had taken a beating in the depths of Azkaban. "If I may ask, how did it happen?"

Tom was, in fact, enjoying speaking with the man, even though Harry suspected it was because it saved him from communicating with some of the other people in attendance. That might have been why he had not yet gotten rid of Malfoy and, in fact, indulged his curiosity. "He was executed."

"Ah…" Malfoy sighed, and Harry finally noticed the vacant expression on his face.

Apparently, Tom wasn't being patient just because he was tired, but rather because he was hoping to figure out if he could trust Lucius not to stab him in the back.

"…so you found out about his treason."

There was a series of outraged gasps from the peanut gallery, echoed by the growls of the Carrows siblings.

"You knew and did not report him?" Tom inquired, without a change of expression.

"With all due respect, my Lord," Lucius replied, drugged by some kind of truth serum that didn't rob him of his personality, "you were insane. I was not keen on the dusty glory of the wizarding world sinking into a pit of Darkness, chaos and tyranny… I have a family to protect, therefore I kept my mouth shut. Far be it from me, however, to hinder someone who opposed our descent into the Abyss."

"What a muggle reference, Lucius," Tom said, almost amused rather than offended.

"It explains so much, though," Harry spoke up, ascending the stairs to the throne. "In the Department of Mysteries, Bellatrix attempted to kill me. She was stopped by Lucius, who claimed it was your exclusive right to dispatch me." He let his hand linger on Tom's shoulder, gauging just how thin his husband was stretching himself.

Too thin.

"Everything I said that night was the truth," Lucius defended himself, "but if Harry Potter died, so would our culture."

Lucius was quite possibly dead on, although not for the reasons he had considered. At this point, it was indubitable that Tom would follow Harry into death, dragged by their bond. Without either the Dark Lord,or the so-called Light Lord to maintain a semblance of order, the Ministry would attempt to manage the wizarding society, and some well-meaning idiot would free Dumbledore, and within two generations the entire magical Britain would collapse upon itself.

"Wow," Harry said blandly, inconspicuously stroking Tom's nape with his thumb. "Here you've got an intelligent follower capable of independent thinking. His loyalty is somewhat shaky, but give him a cause he believes in, and he'll become dependable."

"You say keep him?" Tom asked with a raised eyebrow. It made the question seem sarcastic, but Harry understood that Tom really wanted his opinion on this and, in fact, was grateful that the weight of the decision wasn't resting on him.

"Absolutely," Harry replied with cool certainty. Lucius was far more adept at maneuvering through the murky waters of the Ministry of Magic than either Harry or Tom could hope to become. "Not in the Innermost Circle, but perhaps in the Inner. I've got an idea…"

Here was Harry's chance to delegate the oppressive necessity of orchestrating the farce of a trial for Dumbledore – better yet, to transfer the responsibility onto someone who knew what to do without reading countless law books, and on whom he could take out his displeasure, should the effort fail.

"Lucius, how do you feel about Dumbledore?" Harry asked, fluently taking over the initiative from his husband, who did not protest, content to lean back and observe.

"Meddling, mudblood-loving old coot," Lucius said bluntly, losing some of his eloquence to the drug. "Needed him alive, unfortunately, to oppose the Dark Lord and keep balance…"

"And now that the Dark Lord has been _pacified_?" Harry asked, smiling.

"_I resent that_," Tom hissed under his breath.

Harry tightened his hold on the bony shoulder under his fingers. The skin was cold, and he could feel it even through the heavy robe.

"Must not become a martyr," Lucius replied with pragmatism Harry could respect. The audience raised a supportive murmur. "Fanatic followers would unite and oppose the Order."

"Suggestions?" Harry demanded, looking pointedly at the interrogated wizard. Fortunately, the onlookers understood that he wasn't asking for their brainstorming.

"Open trial. Reporters and public must observe. Has to look genuine." Lucius swayed a little, and a Healer sprung up seemingly from nowhere, steadying him. Either too physically exhausted to protest or drugged enough to lose his foolish pride, Lucius accepted the support without the slightest protest.

"Tom?" Harry said. He had already decided, and was asking for an opinion only due to formalities. It was better if these Dark wizards and witches heard the commands from the Dark Lord's mouth. "Lucius is good with this type of politicking… legal loopholes, swaying the opinion… isn't he?"

"Yes," Tom agreed. "If anyone is able to organise a trial for Dumbledore and have him incarcerated for the rest of his life, it is Lucius."

Harry nodded and pinned the Lord Malfoy with a look that used to disconcert his father so much. It didn't seem to have the same effect on the son, but then, Lucius was presently doped up to his eyeballs. "Start on it as soon as your health allows you to," Harry said, and gave the Healer the go-ahead to lead the man out of the room. "_Is there something that absolutely cannot wait until after you've eaten?_"

Tom scowled at Harry, but for once he didn't argue. He instructed the waiting supporters to come back at five and let Harry _accompany_ him to the dining hall.

x

"…disappointed."

Harry approached the parlour. The left wing of the door was open, and through it he could see that the representatives of the Light part of New Order's support base were already seated and waiting for him to appear. He was quite interested in what they had to say, so he paused in the hallway and listened.

"You actually expected _more_?" Kingsley Shacklebolt's voice asked with apparent disdain for the first speaker. "I would have said it was impossible to have that much power, had I not seen it with my own two eyes." The Auror sounded apprehensive rather than awed, which could have been a good thing as easily as it could have been a bad thing.

Harry decided to postpone judgment. He had not expected Shacklebolt to accept the invitation at all; he had thought the man to be too much under Dumbledore's thumb.

"Of course not!" the first speaker defended himself. Harry didn't recognise the voice, so by process of elimination that would have been either Samuel Jordan or Algernon Longbottom.

"Then what is the problem?" asked the chilly – and unmistakable – Portia Prewett. Harry remembered _her_ from Hogwarts fifty-five years ago. She had actually had an affair with Moody, one that resulted in several impressive blow-ups and numerous detentions for the destruction of school property.

Harry was almost certain that Moody adopted his favourite saying due to scarring (physical and emotional) by his brief but explosive relationship with Portia. He was very glad that the witch was amenable to joining them.

"They aren't handling it!" the disappointed man responded angrily. "It's a political disaster! Already people are crying out for Albus' release, and it's only going to get worse!"

"Albus is good where he is," Portia said resolutely. "You can only insult a hippogriff so many times before it bites off your head. Albus always thought about himself too much – and thought too much of himself."

There was scattered laughter when several people mistook Portia's candour for witticism, but it quieted quickly in the serious atmosphere.

"Still, it is a valid concern," opined Augusta Longbottom, whose attendance Harry also had not counted on. He had feared that she was irreversibly hostile towards Tom… though now that he thought about it, she only had a grudge against the Lestranges and the late Crouch Junior…

"I agree that Dumbledore should be put on trial," Ted Tonks asserted, "and a fair one if at all possible. I have heard enough about his practices from my daughter that I don't doubt he would be found guilty of several nasty crimes."

"Child-endangerment," Amos Diggory said with a funereal air.

There was a moment of silence.

"Still," Tonks continued, "you must realise that no one could have anticipated this situation. Certainly, the Riddles wanted these results, but I'm sure they had planned them on a schedule over the next year – years, even. They weren't prepared for such a rapid turnover."

"They're not handling it," Jordan (of whose identity Harry was now reasonably certain) repeated. "They aren't flexible enough, apparently. The Order should either elect someone with political acumen to represent it, or stop trying to uproot the Ministry."

"Dumbledore's trial is being heralded as we speak," Harry announced, standing in the doorway.

Every eye in the room shifted to him. He smiled – the soft, honest smile that he put on whenever he was expected to command the attention of a greater audience. Speeches didn't come naturally to him like they did to Tom, but he did have the ability to make people believe him – or believe in him.

"Welcome," Harry said, mentally counting the wizards and witches in attendance. There were seventeen of them; four had refused the invitation. It was still better than he had dared envision, especially at such a short notice. "I'm honoured to see you here, and hope that our dialogue will be fruitful."

x

Harry was a little disappointed but not at all surprised that Arthur Weasley had simply not turned up. Similarly, Amelia Bones' and Magnus McKinnon's absence was hardly unanticipated; both families had been the victims of some of the bloodiest Death Eater massacres in the seventies.

Portia let him know that she had no intention whatsoever to be a part of the same party as the man who had effectively murdered her nephews, but that she similarly didn't intend to stand in the way of the two young men she had known as a girl and privately agreed with. Gawain Robards, the brand new Head Auror, proclaimed himself neutral and stressed that he had sworn to uphold the law, which Harry accepted in the spirit of a warning in which it was given.

Griselda Marchbanks and Tiberius Ogden, Wizengamot Elders and the two people in the room whose sheer age intimidated Harry, asked to be convinced by actions in the future and left with heartfelt well-wishes. Harry rather suspected that they both remembered himself and Tom from the time they had taken their N.E.W.T.s.

The rest of Harry's guests promised their support (Augusta Longbottom with the stipulation that Bellatrix Lestrange would be turned over to justice), with the sole exception of Minerva McGonagall, who had not spoken for the duration of the debate, and remained seated after Harry thanked everyone for their attendance and promised to be in contact.

Harry felt Tom awaken as Hu Chang left for the Apparition Chamber, tailing the procession lead by Theodore Nott the Third, whom Harry had drafted for this part.

Harry closed the door and sat down opposite the freshly appointed Headmistress of Hogwarts. Of the wizards and witches he had invited today, Harry felt he knew her best – he had known her as a child and as an adult, for years.

"I didn't think you would come," he said honestly. "I'm happy that you did."

McGonagall scoffed. She glared at him; the look in her eyes reminded Harry of Tom, and it struck him just how run-down she must have been. Paradoxically, these negotiations might have been a chance for her to just switch off for a while and rest her overworked mind, for Harry suspected that she had made a decision concerning the New Order long before she entered Nott Manor.

"You don't look well, Mr Potter," she said, like a true Gryffindor.

Harry smiled. "It's been a couple of difficult days. How are you holding up at Hogwarts?" He wasn't quite sure what she wanted to talk about, but he was content to make small talk before she felt ready to share.

"You threw a wrench into the works, kidnapping Albus." There was no resentment in her voice, oddly, only disappointment and weariness. She palpated a tiny leather pouch she had hanging on her neck and pulled it up to sniff it. It must have contained a calming, or perhaps an invigorating substance. "I have witnessed Albus committing acts that I was strongly opposed to, acts that chilled me to the bone, even, but there never was anyone else who stood up to You Know Who. There was no alternative, Mr Potter, and I like to think that Albus, same as I, did the best he could."

"I don't think that Dumbledore was a bad man," Harry said, and in that particular phrasing it was actually true. "He was selfish, yes, but who isn't?" Feeling like he was playing the Devil's advocate and not liking it one bit, Harry asked: "Are you familiar with Darwin's theories, Headmistress?"

McGonagall nodded, took another sniff and let the pouch fall, where it landed softly in between folds of her emerald green robe.

"Survival of the fittest," Harry pointed out. "Dumbledore isn't the fittest anymore. He's not been for decades, I think, and if not for some statistically impossible occurrences, Tom would have pushed him out of his chair around the time my parents were born." Harry suspected there was something twisted about being married to a man who would have been in his prime before Harry's parents had been born, but he chose not to waste time and energy on contemplating something so philosophical.

"What truly happened?" McGonagall asked, imploring Harry to give her some excuse for her decision to support the Order. "We only have suppositions and wild guesswork. Explain it to me, please… _Harry_…"

He wasn't certain if he liked this woman addressing him so familiarly, but he chose not to make a scene about it at this time. If she insisted on doing it in the future, he would later request that she stop, but at the moment it was more important to reassure her so that the New Order's influence at Hogwarts would not be actively opposed by the administration.

"I won't disclose how and why, but on my birthday I was, unwittingly, pulled into the year 1943. I attended the sixth and seventh year at Hogwarts, was Sorted into Slytherin, and through series of unforeseen circumstances saw through my initial antagonism toward Tom to the person he was." He paused, considering how much he was willing to disclose. Omitting their relationship wholly wasn't feasible, but it was just too private to put on display for the public. What he and Tom had was sacred to Harry, and he would not cheapen it by bragging about it to someone whom it didn't concern. "Tom and I got married in spring 1946. A year later I was, again unwillingly, transported back through time."

He gave the older witch a while to digest the information.

She reached for the pouch on her neck again, but didn't sniff it this time. Slowly, she nodded as understanding dawned. "The reason for You Know Whose insanity was the disruption in your wedding bond. Essentially, the cause of the war was your transportation through time…?"

"Correct," Harry said.

McGonagall flinched.

Perhaps Harry was being too inconsiderate, but he did not think any more coddling would be beneficial to his future working relationship with the Headmistress. He stood and gentlemanly offered his hand. She accepted and let him help her up and lead her out of the parlour, in the same direction as Theodore had led the rest of the visitors.

"I hope I am not making a mistake, Mr Potter," she said as they neared their destination, "but I am, personally _and_ in the capacity of the Headmistress of Hogwarts, prepared to listen to you and your husband's opinions. I also hope," she took a deep breath, as if steeling herself, "that the Gryffindor I have known for the past five years lives on inside you. In that spirit, I give you these."

She recovered a pack of envelopes from the inner pocket of her cloak, and handed them to him. "Your friends – at least I hope they are still your friends – asked me to give those to you. They miss you."

Harry acknowledged the statement with a nod, but offered no sentiments in return. Frankly, he did not need nagging children following him around and sticking their noses where they didn't belong, but he also would have liked to maintain _some_ contact with the people he cared about.

"Thank you, Headmistress," he said. "Good luck with the school."

"Good luck to you, too, Mr Potter," she replied, and Disapparated.

Harry spun on his heel and gestured Theodore, who had remained at hand in case he was needed, to come down from the ledge he had seated himself on.

"It seems to have gone well, my Lord," the boy remarked.

Harry offered him a smile of appreciation, and set out toward the throne room. He knew Tom had since returned there to continue the day's work when his two hours of potion-induced sleep were up.

"Contact Narcissa Malfoy for me," he ordered. "Tell her I wish to speak with her – today if possible. If not, then tomorrow in the morning. Afterwards come find me. I should be in the Hall."

"Yes, My Lord," Theodore said, and disappeared down a secret passage.

x

"_Enough_," Harry said when at half past eight Tom opened his mouth to instruct Avery to bring him another pile of parchments.

His command garnered no response whatsoever, so he stood from the table he had conjured hours ago and Banished the mountain of work to the Private Study. Only the Notts could enter there, and they were both bright and loyal enough not to mess with Tom's documents. "_Go to sleep, Tom. We'll sort out the extradition tomorrow._"

Tom looked like he wanted to argue, but Harry caught his forearm, and then his eye, and Tom reconsidered. He nodded, accepted Harry's kiss to his knuckles with indifference stemming from mental exhaustion, and Apparated to the Green Suite.

"Antonin, Dexia," Harry addressed the two Death Eaters waiting for instructions, "you and your teams take the captives into the dungeons and secure them. Any damage done to them will be replicated on the enterprising individual's body. I hope that's clear enough."

"Yes, sir," Dexia Japes said with a shallow bow and marched out, followed closely by Antonin, who merely raised his hand in a mute farewell.

"Are you tired, Theodore?" Harry inquired.

The boy, seated next to the fireplace with a book on detection spells, considered the question much too seriously. Eventually he said: "Not really, My Lord. For me it has not been a particularly demanding day."

"Then you would not mind accompanying me to my interview with Malfoy?"

Harry had chosen the Open Study for the location, so he had to get up to the first floor. Theodore made an attempt to follow respectfully half a step behind him, but Harry instructed him to walk so that they could talk.

"Would you consider yourself Draco's friend?" he asked.

Theodore breathed out louder than normally.

Harry guessed he had just stopped himself from snorting.

"No, My Lord." Seeing Harry's questioning expression, he elucidated: "Draco Malfoy does not have friends. He has allies and sycophants, depending on how useful to him they can be, or how useful they feel he can be to them."

"Yourself?" Harry inquired, genuinely interested. As far as he recalled, he had never registered any significant affiliation between Theodore and Malfoy, but he had been a Gryffindor, and not a very observant one.

"Malfoy has nothing I want," Theodore replied succinctly.

Harry wondered if a parallel could be drawn to his friendship with the Weasleys and Hermione. He decided it could not, but it nevertheless put a proverbial bee into his proverbial bonnet.

They reached the Study, where Narcissa was being offered tea by one of the personality-free house elves.

"Good evening, Lady Malfoy," Harry said.

Theodore bowed his head and took a post that would ordinarily be reserved for a bodyguard, had Harry needed one.

A tea set appeared on the table in front of the witch. She didn't bat an eye, and went to stand to properly greet her host. Harry gestured her to remain seated – not proper etiquette, but the day had been long and stressful, and he doubted she would mind for once not observing all the numerous social niceties. He noticed she wore flat shoes, out of character for her yet understandable if she had spent hours on her feet.

"Good evening, My Lord," she replied softly.

"Thank you for coming so promptly. Has your son returned to Hogwarts yet?"

Narcissa tensed, but a second later she relaxed again, as if Harry had just imagined it. She was a very consummate player of the pureblood games, and had Harry been a prey in the balance of power, he would not have stood a chance. As it was, Narcissa didn't dare risk deceiving him.

"Not yet, my Lord. I have supplied him with a portkey that will activate tomorrow in the early morning." She fell silent, scrutinising Harry for signs of impending explosion.

Harry resolved to remember how loosely the Malfoys tended to interpret direct orders. Otherwise he didn't find the matter important enough to warrant repercussions. "Give him this and instruct him to keep it," he said, setting an elegant black leather-bound book on the table next to the teapot.

It was, although Narcissa was not to know, a diary personalised to Draco Malfoy, warded against intrusion and liberally _improved_ with compulsion enchantments that wouldn't let the owner avoid it or lie in it. It was yet another product of Harry's successful morning.

"It will not harm him," Harry promised her solemnly.

Narcissa accepted, expertly disguising her unwillingness, and stashed the book away inside her cloak.

"I have a question about Draco, actually," Harry said then, and Narcissa's eyes went sharp within a split second. She did not intimidate him, but it would have been stupid to underestimate her, especially as he was plotting to put her child into a potentially humiliating situation. "How much does he wish to become a Death Eater?"

Had the one asking this question been Tom, it would have been poisonous. Narcissa was not yet able to tell if Harry was at all different from his husband, so she presumed she was being tested. There were no correct answers when it came to the Dark Lord, only acceptable ones.

Narcissa did her best to keep her family from harm. "Draco has always been looking forward to his initiation. Gaining the honour of the Dark Mark is one of his fondest wishes. However, at the present time I do not feel he is ready for such responsibility."

Harry smirked, for no other reason than because it disconcerted her. "I respect your feelings, Lady Malfoy, but I was asking about your son's opinion."

Narcissa set down her cup of tea, since her hands were beginning to quiver, and the robe she was wearing was way too expensive for her to risk sloshing tea over it.

Harry glanced over at Theodore; the boy was observing everything through his fringe, for once not the least bit reminiscent of Tom.

"He has yet to reconcile with the reality of your existence, my Lord," she said calmly, but obviously resigned to a Cruciatus for her perceived failure.

If Harry had thought harming his mother would have made a dent in Malfoy's obstinacy, he might have considered it. Otherwise, he just didn't see a reason.

"You cannot help that, Narcissa. He remains hostile toward me, and he's stubborn to the point of stupidity," he told her straightforwardly. Of the Malfoys, she was the one he was best able to communicate with, so he would have liked to keep her pliable. "He needs to fall down hard enough to break that stubbornness, and then he will be useful. He is imaginative enough to be brought into the centre."

Narcissa didn't like that (a second Dark Lord telling her he had plans for her child must have been a disquieting experience), but she knew Harry could have taken offence and made Draco's life into a living Hell, so she bowed her head and forced herself to say: "Thank you for your patience with him, my Lord."

Harry shrugged. He didn't really care enough about Draco Malfoy to be bothered by his childish tantrums; he didn't feel threatened by the displays and therefore saw no reason to keep proving his power over the boy.

"He will spend his Christmas holidays here. Hopefully, by the twenty-second of December, he will be ready to behave like an adult."

"Yes, my Lord," Narcissa replied, and almost displayed her relief at being dismissed. She politely refused Harry's offer to see her to the Apparition Chamber and left in a flurry of skirts.

Theodore shifted once she was out of sight, but didn't speak up.

"You have questions?" Harry encouraged him.

The boy looked at him imploringly. After a moment he ventured: "You want to Mark Malfoy, my Lord?"

Harry chuckled. "I will Mark Draco Malfoy as my follower the day I feel he could be useful to me."


	11. Repartee

Chapter Ten: Repartee

x

"You're sure it's a good idea?" Harry inquired doubtfully. "Scrimgeour is scared stiff of you."

Tom took a seat at the head of the table and laid his hands palms-down on the wood. Harry registered the tiny tremors in his fingers, in addition to the way his knuckles seemed disproportionately massive. Irrationally, it occurred to him that Tom should have a ring – or several of them – at the very least to boast his descent from Salazar Slytherin.

Of course, that particular ring (originally a Peverell heirloom) was now lost, destroyed in the ritual Harry had used to reassemble his husband's soul.

"It will only make the negotiations easier on me," Tom replied, pouring himself his third cup of coffee. He gulped it down, unsweetened and black as death, shuddering at the taste.

"You're masochistic," Harry pointed out, and wondered how he could not have realised this years ago.

"I have never allowed discomfort to hinder me," Tom replied evenly, pouring his fourth cup, which Harry summarily Summoned from his hand. There was a brief magical struggle, but as they shared all their power, it resulted in a shower of ground porcelain and tiny droplets of coffee.

"I'm happy you've dropped Pepper-Up for the day," Harry said, "but that won't be of much help if you'll have an infarct-"

"_Stop nagging_!" Tom hissed, bringing his fist down on the desk hard enough to rattle the tableware.

Harry bit his tongue and forced himself not to react spontaneously (_exempli gratia_ start yelling back). He paused to think.

Was he nagging?

Yes, he supposed he was, but there was a damn good reason for him to do it. He understood now how Hermione had felt when he and Ron spent their time horsing around instead of concentrating on their schoolwork, but there still were miles of difference – Harry's careless attitude toward his academic performance had hurt nothing in the long run. Tom's disregard for his own, very serious, physical condition could turn out to be apocalyptical.

Harry had a vivid vision of Tom losing consciousness in 'Minister' Scrimgeour's office and offering an once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to the opportunist who had already proven he had no problem hexing someone in the back. Fudge was, according to the Prophet, in St Mungo's with dismal prognosis of improvement. Taking into account just how terrified Scrimgeour was of Tom, Harry didn't think the man would balk at murder in this case.

"I'm going with you," Harry said. He rose from the table, indicating that he had no intention of continuing the conversation.

Tom magnanimously let him have the last word, even though his mind was probably already on the Ministry.

x

Tom, upon absorbing the information that Harry was tagging along, decided that they might as well skip the preliminary talks and take the prisoners with them, and thus they arrived in the centre of the lobby and scared the Ministry personnel half to death.

The reactions were hardly surprising. Antonin had volunteered his team, so five Death Eaters, all dressed in uniform black yet forgoing the obligatory cloaks in favour of elegant and fashionable robes and dresses, stood strategically positioned around the row of the kneeling Carrows', Macnair, Crouch, Greyback, Yaxley and Pettigrew. Harry belatedly noticed that Bellatrix was absent.

"S-sirs!" the watchwizard stuttered at them, still in the process of collecting his jaw from the floor. He nervously shifted his wand from hand to hand. When Tom, Harry and their retinue turned to him in an eerie unison, he took a few ambling steps backwards.

Harry moved forwards, just enough to warn Tom that he was going to deal with this, because they wouldn't have made a very good first impression if they killed the security. Tom was in a right mood today, and he wasn't the most patient person when irked. Also, he tended not to hold back once he decided to display his displeasure.

"Is there a problem, Carlin?" Harry asked, squinting at the nametag on the wizard's robe.

Carlin Bukowski, if Harry was reading the surname correctly, instinctively shook his head before he paused and tried to remember what he was supposed to do when a group of 'potentially' hostile Dark wizards invaded the lobby. By the way his feet kept jerking, he must have remained stuck at 'run.'

"We have an appointment with the Minister in – ah…" Harry cast a nonverbal wandless Tempus spell, and Bukowski paled further when the realisation dawned that he was faced with power he could not have dreamed of. "…a bit more than two minutes," Harry finished the sentence, and met the watchwizard's eye, flashing his patented 'believe in me, I'm your Saviour' smile.

"L-l-lettme… j-just-"

Harry was the only one to hear Tom's soft growling, but not the only one to breathe out in relief when the gilded grille of the VIP lift opened and Scrimgeour stepped out of it, followed by the young assistant that had spoken with Harry through the Floo and, unless Harry's memory was going the way of Tom's sanity, Amelia Bones.

"Lords Riddle," Scrimgeour said by way of greeting, and went so far as to sketch out a bow.

Tom accepted the borderline genuflexion without a blink, but to Harry it seemed overdone and too blatantly obsequious. Bones obviously shared his opinion, judging by the sharp and disgusted look she aimed at the back of Scrimgeour's head.

"Minister," Harry replied, asserting himself as the speaker for the group. "Miss Festervex; Madam Bones."

Attempting to take advantage of the moment when everyone's attention was focused elsewhere, Carlin Bukowski snuck back into his booth and tried to make himself as inconspicuous as possible.

"Let us proceed upstairs," Scrimgeour said, drawing himself taller and inserting a slight bit of confidence into his tone.

Bones switched her glare from Harry to the Minister. She looked ready to bar his way with her own body if he attempted to lead the Wooden Horse into the depths of her stronghold. "The procedure states that all visitors to the Ministry must have their wands checked before entrance," she stated coldly.

Scrimgeour shakily laughed, waving her assertion away as if it were a particularly annoying fly. "Amelia, certainly there is no need to do that. Lords Riddle and their entourage are welcome to come right in." He shot a glance at Tom, who was presently standing back and observing – judging by the curiosity seeping through the bond – how Harry was going to handle this.

Harry, since he disliked Scrimgeour but had no doubts about his usefulness, faked a concerned expression. "Are you certain, Minister?" he asked. "There would be no problem in having our wands checked-"

"No, no! No need for that, sir! Don't mind Amelia, she's a stickler for the rules-"

"And rightly so," Harry inserted, driving another nail deep into the coffin of Scrimgeour's dignity.

Amelia Bones seemed to hate him more for his solemn profession of respect.

"Right…" Scrimgeour agreed, hopeful that agreement was what was expected of him.

A brief silence fell on the company, with the backdrop of the everyday Ministry bustle of multiple Apparitions and Disapparitions, arrival of portkeys, slamming doors, rumble of lifts and babble of dozens of passing citizens.

The corners of Tom's mouth twitched. Harry knew that he was mostly amused, but no one else could have guessed that.

Scrimgeour hastily instructed them to make use of the VIP lift, which, it turned out, could be expanded to transport up to fifty people, and which didn't stop at every level but – like Muggle lifts – had call buttons on the inside.

Bones took the initiative and pressed number two.

"Amelia…?" Scrimgeour hissed at the woman.

"It is most efficient to take these criminals straight to the holding cells," the woman replied evenly.

Tom was on the verge of slipping in a nonverbal hex – and Harry believed he could do it, too, avoiding all the protections the Ministry had certainly installed. Fortunately, he refrained. Harry, on the other hand, had to respect the amount of daring it took to call a Dark Lord a criminal to his face, and the slyness necessary to put it so that said Dark Lord remained civil afterwards. It helped that Scrimgeour flushed, possibly about to have a heart-attack.

The lift deposited them on the second floor with a businesslike clang, and Bones assertively took the lead.

x

The Auror Headquarters had been ready for them. There were so many wizards there that Harry would have bet everyone available had been called in. In groups of three, they secured the seven captives. Scrimgeour grumbled that they had not brought Bellatrix, but cut himself off before he suggested that Tom wished to keep her at hand to do his dirty work.

Tom acidly informed the man that Bellatrix was dead, and offered to send her body over later.

Bones then spoke up and instructed her men to douse the prisoners with Veritaserum to ascertain their identity, and within moments decided that it would be a waste of expensive potion to not conduct full interrogation at the same time.

Harry suspected it was Bones' ploy to show them that she was not going to cater to their whims. Attitudes like that mostly got the offender killed, but Harry didn't want to dispose of the woman just yet – especially not right after her public disagreement with them. That would have meant that they were blatantly ignoring all the promises they had made in their proposal of armistice.

"_I can manage this on my own_," Harry said.

Tom spun on his heel, slapping several desk-legs with the folds of his robe, and looked at Harry. At first he was impatient, vexed to have been torn out of his angry musing, but then he figured out what Harry was getting at and marginally calmed down.

It might not have been discernible in his face, but Harry smiled at him anyway. "_Why don't you track down Lucius and ask how he's progressing on the matter of Dumbledore's trial_?"

Tom Apparated out, breaking through Ministry wards as if they were made of tissue.

"What – where has he gone?" the Minister demanded, lifting himself from the chair he had the Aurors transfigure for him so that he could be comfortable during the investigation.

"You don't imagine my Lord husband has so much free time that he would waste his whole day with you?" Harry asked sharply.

Scrimgeour stared back at him with the first hint of rebellion Harry had noticed in him. "I am the Minister, Potter! I don't have time to waste here, either!"

Apparently, it was only Tom that instilled such bone-chilling terror in the man.

"Rufus," Harry addressed him in a lowered voice; "don't make the mistake of thinking me less powerful or less decisive than my husband merely because I do not feel the need to show off my power and have a tendency to be merciful. Do not anger me. I would not go off and whine about it to Tom; neither would I turn the other cheek."

"I fought against the Dark Lord, Potter, and I know I must tread the line around him if I want to survive. You, however, have no hold over me save for your _association_ with him."

Harry's eyes narrowed. He knew he could not do anything that would fracture the fragile air of ostensible ignorance. His every act in the capacity of the second Dark Lord had to be plausibly deniable, and casting Cruciatus on the Minister in the middle of DMLE did not fall into that category.

"You live in Auchendinny, don't you, Rufus? With your sister and her two kids – a boy and a girl. Didn't the girl turn seven recently? And the boy is twelve, right? A Hufflepuff?" Harry was quite proud of himself for remembering that much. He had no earthly idea where Auchendinny actually was, or if it was even feasible to stage a raid there (not that he would, at least not because the Minister was being an idiot), but the expression on Scrimgeour's face told him there would be no more quips about Harry's supposed lack of intimidation factor.

"H-how did you… Don't you… Leave Mary alone, Potter. I'll do what you want."

"Splendid," Harry said dryly. "Start by addressing me with respect and keeping your opinion on my husband's agenda to yourself."

"Yes, Lord Riddle," Scrimgeour said loudly, because the Aurors and Hitwizards were beginning to congregate around them, worried that Harry was going to go Voldemort on their poor Minister. The men and women relaxed then and returned to their work, even though most of them still kept at least half an eye on Harry.

None too soon, Bones entered the room, in the most ironic company she could have assembled within her department: Kingsley Shacklebolt – a former member of the Order of the Phoenix turned into a reluctant supporter of the New Order – and Mercury Savage – a Marked Death Eater, who had replaced Robards as the assistant to the Head of the Aurors.

"I must thank you for your assistance, sir," Savage said, coming forth and extending his hand, which Harry did shake with the countenance of a proud man doing a favour to someone beneath him. Situations like this were one of the main reasons why he consistently wore gloves.

"I will sleep better knowing criminals like them are locked up in Azkaban, not roaming the countryside," he said, glancing at Scrimgeour.

The Minister scowled and turned away, cowed, knowing too well how many criminals were still outside, free to roam the countryside, particularly the countryside around Auchendinny.

"We would gladly accept your aid with any other outlaws you might apprehend," Shacklebolt added, not very subtly.

Bones swallowed hard; it must have pained her to act civil toward representatives of the very wizard who had masterminded her family's murders. Harry sympathised – she was not the only one who had lost family to Voldemort – but there was nothing to be done about it. Voldemort had been vanquished, just like the prophecy had foretold he would be, and she would let go of her hatred or suffer under its weight.

"I have my eyes on you," Bones said quietly, pressing the words out through clenched teeth. Her skin was white with constrained rage, and the hand clenched around her wand trembled. "I'll pick up your little slaves, one by one, the moment they return to their practices. I will not let the innocent suffer because you were too much of a coward to stand for what is right, Harry _Riddle_."

It had been a long time since someone had felt such a strong disgust for Harry – or, rather, it had been a long time since Harry had let it affect him.

He did not show it; instead he appeared to be betrayed by her in return. "The moment this Ministry put me on trial for defending my life against dementors sent by this very Ministry's employee, my idea of justice was different from yours. I am not Voldemort, Madam Bones, but I will only adhere to your laws if I agree they are just."

Bones would have required a moment to compose a retort, but Harry didn't intend to stay for a bit of verbal repartee. He spun on his heel and set out to gather Antonin's group.

A trinity of Hitwizards seated by the interactive map of Wessex with winking red points moved to rise, but Bones shook her head. They settled back, disgruntled but obedient.

Harry chalked up a small victory, which nevertheless left him with a feeling of unease.

Going by the look Antonin gave him when he came into sight, all of them were glad to be leaving.

x

Harry barely stepped over the Manor's threshold when he was met by a panting and obviously relieved Death Eater.

"My Lord!" the man called, practically skidded to a halt in front of Harry and bowed. He braced himself with his hands of his knees a moment later, and tried to catch his breath – yet another of the wizards who relied too much on their wand and neglected their physical endurance.

Like Tom.

"Antonin," Harry said. He didn't have to continue, because the wizard nodded and led his team past the wheezing man into the building. They would report to Tom, who had, presumably, managed to make his way to the Ballroom, which had become something akin to his unofficial office – that was where their people delivered all news, reports and material, and where the unannounced guests were received.

"My Lord!" he Death Eater repeated. "We have received a request to open the wards for a group of three!"

Harry deduced that this wizard was one of the guards in the portkey chamber, and ordered him to go straight back and speak along the way.

"I was on my way to alert the Dark Lord, but then the wards registered your arrival and… well…"

Harry stifled his impatience with the blabbering, and responded: "You did well. Who sent the request?"

"Hogwarts, my Lord-"

Harry quickened his step and slipped through an illusion of a decorative grille onto a narrow secret staircase, abandoning the Death Eater to his – longer – route. He felt slightly uneasy about encroaching upon the Notts' hospitality further by learning and using some of their secret passages. Perhaps it was time Tom and he moved into their own residence.

He entered the portkey chamber so quickly that he raised a breeze. The remaining guard had him at a wand-point within half-a-second.

A moment later, the wand was gone and the man bowed low, muttering an apology.

Harry, satisfied with his performance rather than bothered about being aimed at, ordered: "Grant the request from Hogwarts."

The wizard grabbed a handful of floo powder from the tall limestone vase next to him and threw it into the fireplace, calling "Hogwarts, Head's Office!"

As far as Harry understood the security system, that fireplace was the only one accessible to public, and it was impossible to use it for transportation.

The green flames disappeared, leaving behind fantastically green embers.

"Madam McGonagall?" the Death Eater asked.

"Present," the Headmistress' distorted but recognisable voice replied.

"The wards will be open for you for the next thirty seconds."

Familiar with wardwork, Harry didn't bother paying attention to what the man was doing after the fire sprang back to life, returning to its natural colour. Instead, he stood ready to defend, just in case McGonagall was trying something underhanded. He didn't think she was, but life in Slytherin had drummed into his head the universal policy of _fide, sed qui, vide_.

"Incoming," the Death Eater warned.

There was a loud whoosh, and a trinity of young people in Hogwarts uniforms touched down in the centre of the room. Ginny landed almost gracefully; Hermione would have remained standing, had Ron not attempted to catch himself on her shoulder and taken her down with him.

The Death Eater, to his credit, maintained his blank expression all through the following half a minute of slapstick comedy.

"Welcome," Harry said once Hermione finished laying into Ron and there was a chance that they might notice him speaking.

Ginny, smiling, came right over and gave him a brief hug. "Hi, Harry. It's great to see you again." Leaning closer, she whispered: "You're sexy in the Dark-Lord get-up."

Harry refrained from laughing aloud – he could not break form in front of ordinary Death Eaters, and the more capable guard was just being joined by his tardy partner – but he allowed a quirk of lips.

"Come along," he instructed the children, nodding briefly to the guards, who bowed back.

Ron followed on Ginny's heels, wand in hand, like the protective big brother he was, but Hermione hesitated – possibly she didn't realise that she would be left in a room with two Death Eaters and no one to chaperone.

"I can promise on my magic that you will not be harmed by any member of the New Order," Harry offered, very careful about not _actually_ promising any such thing.

Hermione decided to accept that – or perhaps she belatedly realised the situation she would have found herself in if she hadn't accepted it – and joined the group. Ginny meanwhile appropriated Harry's arm and hung onto him; luckily she was reasonable enough to keep it within the limits of decency, aware that Harry was married to a man whose potential fit of jealousy was likely to end in a body count and massive collateral damage.

"I must admit to being surprised that you're here," Harry said, including all three of them in the statement.

"Mum tried to forbid me but, well, McGonagall gave me a portkey," Ginny informed him cheerfully. "When I told Hermione that I had permission from the Headmistress, she thawed."

Hermione huffed, but didn't refute the statement. Ron just shrugged, wordlessly agreeing.

"Amazing," Harry scoffed. "McGonagall is Headmistress for less than a week, and already she's adopting Dumbledore's _modus operandi_."

"What do you mean?" Naturally, Hermione couldn't refrain from defending her teachers – the everyday heroes of her academically-centered world.

"Sending underage students to meet Dark Lords," Harry replied flippantly.

Ginny giggled, and even Ron snorted. Maybe, just maybe, that was another friendship Harry wouldn't lose.

"You're hardly a Dark Lord, Harry," Hermione protested, moving closer to the wall to put as much distance as possible between her and trio of passing black-cloaked Death Eaters.

The supporters were putting in an effort to make their ogling covert, and since they didn't say a word, Harry decided not to call them out on it. It was bad enough trying to reconnect with his former classmates without his evil-overlord routine getting into the way.

"More than half of this country would disagree with you," Harry pointed out.

"You're the _Light_ Lord," Ginny argued.

Hermione rolled her eyes, but Ron laughed, and Harry didn't quite hide his appreciation either. "Light Lord…" he tried out the title. "That's a new one." It was even better than Theodore's 'Light Dark Lord.'

"Good," Ginny replied, "I would so hate to be unorigi-"

She was cut off by a scream.

Ron reflexively brandished his wand and set off at a run, followed closely by Hermione, who yelled at him to stop but did nothing except copy his idiocy.

Harry extracted his arm from Ginny (it was a good thing she couldn't have run off, too, because catching three people was twice as difficult as catching two), and cast a Tether with each of his hands; one wanded, the other out of necessity wandless.

Tethers were _evil_ Dark magic, which was not so good, but they also stopped the two idiots from rushing headlong into danger and getting a taste of the Cruciatus Curse themselves before Harry would catch up and save them, and that was a very good thing… he guessed. He might have been robbing them of a valuable life-lesson, but somehow Harry didn't think Ron and Hermione would be any more receptive to that kind of lesson than Draco Malfoy had been.

Harry realised all three teenagers were incredulously staring at him, for a variety of reasons.

"You will remember that you are guests here," he said in the kind of tone he used when managing greater numbers of Marked underlings. He knew it was extremely difficult to ignore a suggestion made in that tone.

These three had known him when he was just a boy, and moreover a boy that was generally submissive, with only the intermittent bout of self-assertion and dominance. Their past experience with Harry Potter might have made them misjudge the seriousness of his words, but he hoped they would be smart enough to obey.

"You will act with decorum, even if that means you will bite your tongues and swallow your own blood to keep from speaking up. Behind closed doors I will be your friend if you will wish it so, but here, in view of wizards and witches who hold me in respect, you will observe that dynamic."

He met their gazes, one by one, and was satisfied that they would, probably, not do anything suicidal.

"Yes, Harry," Ginny said quietly.

They continued, at a sedate pace, forwards. Their way took them – unfortunately, in Harry's opinion – straight to the source of the screaming.

A group of no less than thirty Death Eaters, including Antonin and his five chosen operatives, were positioned in a loose semi-circle in the atrium. Tom was standing in front of them, irritated but not, as some might have mistakenly supposed, enraged. He was keeping a shaking, screaming black-robed man under an Unforgivable, until he noticed Harry's entrance.

"_Did you have to bring them here_?" Tom asked, pausing briefly in the Cruciatus.

The Death Eater rolled over, and Harry recognised him as the older of the Lestrange brothers. It was a peculiar occurrence; the man was one of the dependable ones, trustworthy within reason, and a member of the Inner Circle. Contrary to popular belief, Tom didn't resort to Unforgivables for every trifle.

"_I didn't expect you to be admonishing Rodolphus in the atrium_," Harry said curiously.

Ron and Hermione were busy being horrified. Ginny had gone white, but she wasn't gaping like he had never before seen a grown man drooling onto the floor.

"_Dare I ask_?"

Tom's frown deepened. "_He killed Bellatrix last night_." That explained so much. "I_ am able to follow his reasoning, but sentimentality isn't a good enough excuse for disobeying direct orders_."

"H-Harry…?" Ron squeaked, and Harry hit all three of his companions with a Silencio before either of them unknowingly inspired a mutiny.

"_Harry, try and keep the joyous family reunion in private, would you_?"

"_Sorry. I'll take them to the Study, shall I? Come by when you finish with Rodolphus_?"

"_I'll see_," Tom replied, and Harry interpreted that as a somewhat less direct 'not on your life.'

He nodded – there really wasn't anything he could add – and called his (possibly former) friends away, while Tom turned back to his disobedient servant and continued with another nonchalantly uttered: "Crucio."

x

"H-Harry…?" Ron asked when the door to the Open Study was shut behind them and Harry had released the Silencing Spell.

"How _could_ you?" Hermione yelled, dropping into the nearest armchair and wringing the sleeves of her robe in her hands. She had tears on her face, but Harry wasn't the least bit impressed with her temper tantrum. What had she imagined when he had returned from the graveyard, back in the fourth year, and told her he had been held under the Cruciatus? She was being too sensitive and, although he could excuse it due to her upbringing and nature, he had no intention to cater to it.

"Do you know who that was, Hermione?" he asked, while a house elf provided them with a tea set without being even glimpsed.

Hermione sniffed and grimaced at him, as though attempting to communicate that she didn't care and whoever the 'poor victim' was didn't change her outlook.

"That," Harry continued, "was one of the people who'd turned Neville's parents' brains into sludge. Do you think a gentle rebuke works on somebody like that?"

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that Ron had paled and, trembling, accepted a cup of tea Ginny had poured for him. The girl herself was green around the gills, but she continued fixing cups for the rest of them.

Harry decided he had underappreciated the Weasleys.

"He should be in prison," Hermione hissed. "And you, too. You should be in prison."

Harry met her accusation head on and without a speck of self-consciousness. "Well… yes," he admitted. "In theory. Right next to you."

Flushed with righteous anger, so _expected_ of the young and idealistic Gryffindors, Hermione pursed her lips, narrowed her eyes, and leaned forwards – and then dispelled the almost intimidating image by stammering: "I… I never…"

"It's just a different scale, Hermione," Harry said, with as much gentleness as he could muster. "The principle is the same. Rules exist, and they are being broken. Meter is always double."

He fell silent and gave them a while to digest what he was telling them.

They were all intelligent people, and he believed they had already observed what he was describing to them, but were perhaps too young, too inexperienced, _too unhurt_, to have accepted it as a basic truth.

Ginny gave him a crooked smile and sipped her tea. Harry suspected involvement of Tom's Horcrux, but it was obvious that Ginny was leagues ahead of the elder two in her comprehension of social injustice and social Darwinism. Certainly, she had pieced together a telling picture of Harry's history in the past and accepted his choices as soon as he reassured her that he didn't hate her for simply being who she was.

He wanted to introduce her to Tom. He imagined how proud he would be pointing her out and saying 'this is my childhood friend Ginevra Weasley, a Light witch from Gryffindor, and she has never relinquished her faith in me.'

Ron seemed resigned, but Hermione didn't want to be convinced.

Harry suppressed a sigh and said: "I am trying to show you a world in which nobody is good, just as nobody is evil. All people are born human. We have fundamental differences of opinion based on our nature and our experiences, and varying degrees of rationality in our decisions. Label people what you want – they won't stop being human."

"Is that your way to excuse the war?" Hermione asked, rather acutely.

Harry shook his head. "I'm trying to explain why no excuse is necessary – not to you, Hermione. You haven't lost anyone." As the only one in the room, Hermione had no business declaiming the evil of war based on the losses. "Those who died… well, soldiers have chosen to fight, perfectly aware that they might die. If they had not, they had been manipulated and lied to. Is it that Dumbledore didn't take each and every one of the Order members aside and told them that they could be killed in this conflict? That's why you're mad?" Harry knew that this wasn't her problem – he was enough of a Gryffindor to understand exactly what Hermione was trying to tell him, but he was also enough of a Slytherin to tie her reasoning into knots and let her follow the thread until she began to doubt herself.

"You're making Dumbledore into a bad man-"

"Flawed," Harry cut in. "A _flawed_ man." Once it was obvious that they didn't understand, he explained: "Dumbledore cares little for people. He is too much of a philosopher. For him everything is about ideas. Even the students were mostly but numbers in his mind, for all that he knew all of them by name. Don't fool yourself: Dumbledore only ever acknowledged a loss of life of one of his 'faithful' when it was politically advantageous to him. All the other cases – notably Myrtle Stewart and Carlisle Humdinger – were swept under the carpet."

"Who is Carlisle Humdinger?" asked, unexpectedly, Ginny.

"You have just illustrated my point," Harry replied. "Humdinger was a Hufflepuff, who would have graduated in the early fifties. It is an educated guess of a group of Slytherins that he had been poisoned by his elder sister to secure herself a meagre inheritance. Dippet's machinery labeled it a suicide and there was nary an obituary in the Prophet to commemorate it." He waited for a moment for the idea to sink in, before he delivered the final statement. "My point is… Dumbledore does _not_ care."

"He freed Hagrid," Ron raised a valid (from his point of view) argument.

"He saved you!" Hermione yelled, indignant on the behalf of the ex-Headmaster.

Harry decided to deal with her objection first: "He saved me from danger I would never have been in, if not for his own negligence… or intention," and went on elucidating for Ron: "He had Hagrid released from Azkaban, because _I_ practically spoon-fed him solid evidence that it never could have been Hagrid who murdered Myrtle."

"What…"

"How?"

"Time-travel…" Hermione more stated than asked. Her eyes were glazed, and anybody could practically see the cogs turning within her cranium. "Bonded in the past… no anchor… insanity… that makes sense!" she exclaimed.

Ron grabbed her shoulders before she could vault from her chair and run for the library. "No, it does _not_," he spoke carefully, as if addressing a retarded person. "It makes no sense whatsoever-"

"But it does," Ginny disagreed. "How much do you know about the Dark Order of 1945 to 1947?"

"What?" Ron asked, stupefied.

"Practically everything," Harry replied nonchalantly, at the same time as Hermione said: "Very little. Why do _you_ know about it?"

"I read upon it since the article," Ginny informed them.

Harry had already assumed she had done her research, but he was curious to hear how much she had actually gleaned from Daily Prophet, which had been little more objective then than it was now.

"They were rising incredibly fast," Ginny said. "They were _everywhere_. Within a couple of years, they could have controlled _everything_. Then, all of sudden, they just… stagnated."

"Why?" asked Hermione, ever thirsty for knowledge. She picked up her cup and took a much-needed calming gulp.

"If I'm right," Ginny ventured, looking to Harry, "correct me if I'm not, Harry – the Dark Lord went mad. It was a gradual process, and I don't know exactly how it worked, but he lost his sanity over the next ten years. Losing his body, too, couldn't have helped."

That garnered another wave of protests, although this time it was raised against Ginny, her suspicious extra-curricular activities, and the preposterousness of her findings. Hermione interspersed her argumentation with (rather ironic) attempts to explain the cause of Tom's decades of insanity. She hit the bull's eye, too.

It was a pity she wasn't half as good at assimilation of facts as she was at gathering them.

When the children quieted, almost ten minutes later, Harry was on his third cup of tea and feeling very relaxed. "I know what Voldemort was like even better than you do, guys," he told them mock-casually. They should have asked him if they wanted to know what had actually happened before Tom went mad.

"But you're _married_ to him anyway," Hermione retorted acidly.

She was lucky that Harry felt too comfortable to bother with getting angry.

"I am married to _Tom_," he emphasised. "I am married to the Dark Lord whose Vision gives my life purpose, whom I have come to care for before your parents were even born, Ron. None of you – bar Ginny, due to some unfortunate circumstances – knows _anything_ about Tom."

"He was a Prefect," Hermione noted.

Had she been somebody else, Harry would have thought she was provoking him, contradicting him out of spite. Since she _was_ Hermione, he counter-questioned instead of casting an unpleasant hex. "And what does that tell you?"

Hermione curled unto herself for a while, assuming an atrocious posture that was a murder on her spine but which nevertheless seemed to help her think. Then she recited facts: "He had outstanding marks – but we knew that he was exceptionally intelligent before. He was reliable… held the respect of his class-mates…"

"That is all true," Harry confirmed her deductions.

"He was a teachers' pet!" Ron blurted.

"Inarguably." Harry nodded fondly.

Tom the Prefect had been a masterful performance by a masterful actor, and Harry had beautiful memories of Slughorn bending over backwards just so Tom would give him that honey-sweet smile he reserved for the instances when someone pleased him. Wizards and witches of all ages, like bees, flew together to that smile.

"However," Harry said, with the enormous amount of pride that accomplishment deserved, "that was a product of a long and arduous effort."

"He charmed them into liking him," Ginny said wryly. She would know all about being charmed into adoring Tom.

"Quite," Harry agreed.

They exchanged knowing smiles.

"He could be extremely… _persuasive_," she said contemplatively.

Harry suspected there was something else she wanted to say, or perhaps ask. "Ginny?" he encouraged her, garnering Hermione's glare and Ron's supremely worried look – Ron hated being reminded of the Chamber of Secrets more than Ginny did.

Ginny met Harry's eyes, conveying equal parts of hopefulness and fear. "Would he… consent to meeting me?"

Harry felt smug. Regardless of Tom's consent, he _was_ arranging a meeting. Aloud he said: "I believe so. I will ask, if you want me to."

"I'd like to write a letter," Ginny stated. "Would you deliver it?"

"Sure." Harry replied, and turned to the rug, which he had noticed was the favourite arrival point of the house elves. "Chatter?"

The elf appeared with a pop, took a cursory view of the room, and turned to him. "How can Chatter be of service, Master Lord Harry?"

"Please, bring a sheet of parchment and writing implements," he asked, admittedly a bit more politely than he would have otherwise. One of the reasons why he had called for Chatter specifically was that he could trust her not to bawl her eyes out when she was treated with respect, and because she had enough of a spine to convince Hermione that there was no exploitation of a weaker species happening within the Headquarters of the New Order.

"House elves," Hermione deadpanned, finding yet another pretext to be dissatisfied with Harry's actions.

He had anticipated it, of course, but it was becoming a tad too tedious even to him, who was generally regarded as a relatively patient and genial person. "Hermione, I do not condone house elf abuse. If you look closely, you can see that all our elves are well-dressed, well-fed, and injury-free. Moreover, they _like_ Tom and me."

"Look, Mione," Ron spoke up gingerly, probably risking that he would be hit over his head with a bit of 'light reading' in the near future, "I've got heaps of issues with what Harry's doing, but house elves are a part of our culture."

"Hermione," Harry cut in before the girl could turn her ire onto her less well-armed friend, "I am muggle-raised and understand where you are coming from when you speak out against slavery, but you must realise that you have entered an insular society where this is the standard of behaviour. Your unwillingness to adapt causes you, and by association other muggleborns, to be seen as antagonists. It is one of the reasons why purebloods hate you and come up with all sorts of vulgar monikers for you."

"You're a right bastard, Harry," she snarled.

"And you are not listening to me," he replied, ready to give up on her. She was intelligent, and book-smart, but he did not have the kind of time and ability to keep on forgiving that dealing with her required. "One of your great failings is that you are not open to debate, Hermione. Your opponent might have interesting opinions, but you do not allow yourself to hear them."

"That's not true-"

"It is, Hermione," Ginny said sharply.

"Sorry, Mione," Ron muttered, "but I'm with Harry on this one."

Although unnecessary, the Weasleys' support restored some of Harry's motivation. "As an example," he told the stubborn girl, "you have dismissed out of hand what I have told you right now. Yet, apparently, there was merit in it."

Hermione threw betrayed looks at her two companions, before she drew herself straight and rejoined the battle of words. "So what? You're not my friend anymore, because I don't subscribe to your _Memorandum_?"

"Not at all," Harry replied, calling on a reserve of patience he hadn't been aware he possessed. "I would like to continue being your friend. I'm asking you to accept me, but there seems to be a problem with that."

"Yes, there is a problem," Hermione said, ignoring the shushing gestures coming from the Weasley side of the debate. Apparently, Harry's skin-deep friendliness hadn't fooled the two redheads into believing they were allowed to be rude. Hermione, on the other hand, valued her principles far above and beyond what common sense would dictate – at least so it seemed when she stood and waved her hands in dismay, yelling: "You're married to the murderer of your parents! Are you insane?"

Harry very nearly snorted. The sanity/insanity argument was becoming practically arbitrary, so often it had been revisited between himself and Tom. "I do not think so – but that's only my opinion."

"Stop being flippant!" Hermione cried, flushed with frustration.

That was as much as the other two teenagers in the room were willing to risk. Ginny stood hastily, held out a folded piece of parchment to Harry at the same time as she pushed her righteous friend to the side. "Cool off, Hermione," she said in a tone sufficiently dry to penetrate the other girl's thick skull. "Harry, I'm glad you're alright, and I'd like to get together again sometimes. Maybe you could organise an 'inspection' into Hogwarts?"

Harry smiled at her, accepting the letter, and nodded in response to her hopeful expression. "Perhaps."

By that time Ron, too, was standing, and keeping a hold of one of Hermione's arms. "Mate, I don't like this. But…" Ron took a deep, bracing breath, and sideways glanced at his sister, who nodded to help him bolster his courage. "I get that this is the way things are now and… it's better than if You Know Who killed you – and us. If the war's over then I can accept this. Just…"

Ron took two more bracing breaths. Since no words seemed to be forthcoming, Harry stood up (finding that he was still pathetically small in stature compared to the tallest Weasley), and asked: "Yes?"

Quite suddenly, Ron slumped in defeat. "I don't think Mum and Dad will get over this. You… won't let _him_ hurt them or anything, will you?"

Harry met a pair of imploring blue eyes and, for a brief moment, considered how important it really was to be truthful to these children. In the end, he decided to go with a diplomatic response devoid of any true answers: "I'm sorry about that, Ron. And unless your parents attack us or our people, they won't be in any danger from the New Order."

x

"Slytherin!" Harry muttered. "Teenagers are stressful."

Tom raised his eyes from the coffee table, which had been turned into a temporary worktable, and watched Harry close, lock and ward the door.

"It is as if they completely lacked any survival instinct!" Harry continued, shrugging off his cloak and toeing off his boots. A house-elf double apparition sounded, the cracks so close to each other they were barely discernible, and the wear he had shed disappeared. "Malfoy more or less begs for the Cruciatus every time I meet him, Hermione starts in on me as if I was a sixteen-year-old Gryffindor and-"

"Go on, Harry," Tom cut in snidely. "Tell me how it's my fault that your little friends are angry at you. Tell me how I shouldn't have been cursing my followers in plain sight-"

"They are children, Tom, and they suck morals in with their mothers' milk!" Harry exclaimed, too damn tired of being patient with recalcitrant obstinate intellectuals. "Of course they would be appalled-"

"I never stopped being a Dark Lord, just because you sprang out of a temporal vortex and restored my soul!"

Harry froze in the middle of taking off his belt. His tabard was hanging open, revealing the sides of his tunic, and he quickly continued his trek across the chilly room. The scroll in Tom's hand had a pattern of frost along the edge.

"When have I ever given you the impression that I expected it of you?" Harry asked quietly, sinking into the sofa by his husband's side and off-handedly transfiguring the tabard into a long-sleeved unidentifiable article of clothing. "Tom, I have never ever deceived myself about your nature."

Tom pursed his lips. He attempted to unroll the parchment his anger had frozen, but it crumbled between his fingers. Exasperated, he crushed the pitiful remains in his fist, rubbed his eyes and leaned back. "You're blinded by your emotional attachment."

"Are we being avoidant now? Are euphemisms the latest vogue?" Harry asked, aware that he, too, was being snide, even though the situation called for calm and rationality. He sighed and carded his hand through Tom's hair.

When that earned no reaction, Harry dared rest his cheek on Tom's shoulder. He closed his eyes – and trembled with the sudden, unexpected, detachment he felt; like all the pressure had ceased within a split second. Very little mattered when he was in this state, least of all three virtual strangers. He sighed again. "I am perfectly comfortable with your management of your followers."

There was a minute of silence, while a great part of Tom's defensive wrath transformed into curiosity and indifference. Eventually, he said: "Your friends are not."

Harry pressed a kiss to the side of Tom's neck and shuffled closer still. "My _acquaintances_ are adolescent Light Gryffindors, and I have already informed them on no uncertain terms that I would not let their opinions affect mine."


	12. The Prison

Chapter Eleven: The Prison

x

Harry was proud of himself for not having panicked when he found that Dumbledore's comatose body wasn't where it was supposed to be. He managed to suspend the warring emotions that would have immediately alerted Tom that something was amiss, and went to investigate.

The Nott Manor kitchens were dark and vast, built in the then-contemporary medieval style and left in the care of house elves, to whom modernisation was not a familiar concept. Needless to say, the ceilings were low, walls blackened with layers upon layers of smoke which not even elf magic could scrape off, and the oven was built of mud bricks and covered with an iron plate. A creature that itself was blackened with smoke stood in front of each fire, and every once in a while shoveled a few pieces of coal inside.

Harry wished he had never had an opportunity to visit this place. He had, naively, imagined something akin to Hogwarts kitchens, a huge bright hall filled with busy, diligent little green people, a place of cheerful activity where the stray hungry wizard was always welcome. This was nothing like at Hogwarts; if anything, the kitchens resembled a dark, over-heated elf-hive, complete with sleeping cells hewn into the back wall, as far away from the fires as possible.

"Master Lord Harry is bad here," a hoarse voice sounded by Harry's knee.

He looked down and found a grayish elf standing next to him, leaning on a gnarled cane, staring unseeingly through his fellows. Harry didn't take offence at the comment, mostly because the rudeness was caused by lack of proper education in the use of English language.

"Is Chatter available?" Harry asked, wiping a trickle of sweat from his face and casting a Cooling Charm.

The old elf flinched, but righted himself quickly, and inclined his head. "Chatter is be sent to Master Lord Harry. Master Lord Harry is wait out."

Deeply uncomfortable, Harry accepted the 'suggestion' and removed himself. He felt relieved when the heavy oak door slammed shut behind him, cutting off the horrible screech of the unused hinges. The thud echoed through the basement corridors of the Manor – a part that Harry hadn't had a chance to reconnoiter yet. He shivered in the sudden chill and cancelled the Charm.

Chatter appeared with a pop, rubbing sleep from her eyes.

"Report," Harry ordered.

"Masters' prisoner is being the same, Master Lord Harry," the elf replied swiftly and tonelessly. "He is being guarded by Turvey and Dock-"

"How much did you sleep since I gave you this duty?" Harry asked, disconcerted.

"Chatter is sleeping hours and hours, Mas-"

"Rest, Chatter. I will speak with Dock."

The elf bowed and disappeared.

Harry gritted his teeth. Habit made him want to chew on his lower lip, but Tom had successfully weaned him off many of his vices, and he wasn't going to start falling back into them. He was mightily unhappy about Chatter's state, though: he had quite clearly commanded her to draft sufficient assistance, and it seemed like she had utterly exhausted herself. He hadn't thought her incompetent, but apparently basic mathematics wasn't within her scope.

Perhaps he had been too quick to discount Hermione's house elf liberation movement. Maybe the treatment of house elves needed revolutionising as well…?

"Dock!" he snapped, and set out toward the stairs.

There was a soft crack and patter of tiny feet as the elf struggled to keep up with Harry's relatively long steps.

"Report on Dumbledore!" Harry said before the creature had a chance to annoy him with obsequiousness.

x

"What is this?"

Harry was initially surprised by the greeting he received. Tom's temper had gone worse in the past three days, and there was barely an hour to take a break and relax, here and there. Everything seemed to be happening at once, with their involvement or without it – apparently, at times without even their knowledge.

Tom, angered further by not having received a prompt response, thrust the copy of The Daily Prophet at Harry and stalked off to seat himself in his chair and glare at the stack of never-ending correspondence. The black liquid in the inkwell froze within seconds, while Harry pulled the newsparchment from his chest and read the headline.

'Albus Dumbledore Sentenced For Life!'

He let out a loud breath of surprise, and skimmed the front page. It featured a huge photograph of the – apparently public – trial, complete with an uncompromising Scrimgeour, deathly pale Amelia Bones, and an entirely too smug Lucius Malfoy. The article itself described the trial at length, quoted the jury and various righteous members of the Wizengamot, and finished with the hopeful message of unity and peace now that the 'worst of the warmongers' had been put away. That, at the very least, explained why Dumbledore's comatose body wasn't where Harry had believed it was supposed to be, and why he had been forced to make the trip to the kitchens in the early hours of the morning and wake a half-coherent Chatter.

"Just what we wanted, I think," Harry said, even though Tom quite obviously had stopped expecting an answer. That in itself was strange, and Harry suspected that the stress was getting to his husband in a much more disastrous way than he had thought before.

A ping signaled the arrival of post, forwarded from the portkey room straight into Tom's inbox. Harry picked one at random and opened it: it was an overly wordy congratulation from Hu Chang. "I assume Lucius took your orders and ran with them – to a most successful end."

Tom bared his teeth in a silent snarl, scrawled something across the tidy lines of someone's handwriting and flung the parchment into the outbox.

"He has too much of his own mind," Harry continued, "but we knew that, and he works efficiently enough without us pre-approving his every movement."

"We should have been there!" Tom hissed. "Everyone should have seen us there! This is _our_ victory!"

Harry set both the Prophet and Chang's letter down onto the edge of Tom's desk and shook his head. "Everyone who can be effectively intimidated knows it was our doing," he said, hoping that Tom would see reason through his cloud of ire. "Half the Ministry saw us in front of Azkaban; they know we have defeated Dumbledore. Additionally, the simpering public will eat it up and believe that Dumbledore was evil and had them all fooled, and they will be indignant. That will save us the trouble of persuading them."

"Did you know it was happening?" Tom asked, lifting his eyes to Harry and actually flooding the bond so that Harry was certain they shared even the shiver that ran down his spine.

"No," Harry replied.

Tom nodded, stood from the desk and walked past Harry to the exit.

Harry, feeling injured and confused about why his confusion didn't bother Tom in the least – for he certainly was aware of it – followed closely.

x

They arrived just past four o'clock. The sun was nearing the horizon of awe-inspiring, snow-topped mountains towering over the vale. Hardly anything grew there – moss and lichen, a smattering of the most durable white flowers and the occasional scrub pine – and with the exception of the deep blue tarn, the entire land was grey.

Harry shivered as the portkey deposited them in a gap, right in front of a long, straight stone bridge that looked as if it was cut out of a vampire film. On its other end stood one of the most impressive buildings Harry had ever seen, and although it was only about the size of the White Tower, the sight chilled him to the bone.

"Where is this place?" he asked of Antonin, who had touched down nary a second after them.

"The Alps, my Lord," was the terse response, and Antonin busied himself by casting a series of charms that protected him from the weather.

Harry shook his head and stared up at the structure. In comparison to many other buildings it might have been tiny, but here in the middle of the inhospitable land it was nothing short of monumental. The bridge was raised on pillars, which continued up on both sides and created the impression of gates: Harry felt ward after ward scanning him. Most of the Death Eaters in their procession, including Antonin, were stopped at one or the other. Tom pushed through with force and Harry refused to be separated from him, so he followed the example. Apart of the two of them, only Theodore Nott Junior, Apollonia Greengrass and Mnemone Radford were allowed to reach the last tier. They stood under the iron wrought sign '_Warheit Verwirklicht_' overhead and waited for further instruction.

"_We could have used your Light wizards now_," Tom muttered, scowling at the pitiful remnants of his originally intimidating retinue.

Harry was about to point out that he had not been given enough time to assemble his following, and that he had brought Alastor Moody and Nomiki Meadows, but both of them had been detained together with the majority of the Death Eaters, when the gate in front of them opened.

Tom walked through without a pause, entirely too assured of himself. Harry watched him for a moment, hesitant to enter the, admittedly chill-inducing, building without a second thought. Theodore took a deep breath and, clutching his wand in his fist to reassure himself, stepped up to Harry. He exuded stubborn determination, even though it was obvious that he was going against his instincts.

Radford mumbled something unintelligible – some kind of mantra – and walked in Tom's footsteps without once looking over her shoulder.

Greengrass, though…

"Go back to your husband," Harry ordered.

The witch looked like she was going to protest, but then she saw how shadows crept out of nooks and crevices and practically swallowed Radford, whereas Tom was nowhere to be seen, and she obeyed.

"Do you want to return?" Harry asked Theodore.

The boy let out a strangled scoff. "Yes, my Lord. But I want to accompany you more."

Harry nodded. "Come on, then."

They stepped forth side by side. Usually Theodore would follow, but he had meant to go first to offer himself as some kind of a human shield, which Harry wasn't inclined to accept at the moment. Virulent magic struck at them from both sides, but Harry's magic held out against it. Shadows enveloped them like they had done with Radford, but an instance later they stepped into the golden-reddish light of the approaching sunset.

Harry blinked and looked around. They were standing in a gatelodge hardly bigger then a Hogwarts classroom yet much taller, with several floor-to-ceiling windows that let the sunlight in. It was still cold in there, but not as cold as it had been outside, which suggested that even though there were no windowpanes, magic didn't allow the wind in. The floor and the walls were made of the same grey stone as the rest of the building, the perfect picture of desolation, making Harry melancholy at the mere sight of it.

There was nothing there, with the exception of Tom, Radford's limp body on the floor, and a pair of wizards dressed in uniform – _grey_ – robes. The only thing the place was missing, in Harry's opinion, were the dementors.

"…not very likely, sir," one of the grey-dressed wizards, a bear-like, tall, hairy man was saying. "The defences are designed to stop all intruders." He was holding his wand at the ready, and a knife in the other hand, which Harry had noticed only because the blade had glinted. His partner was similarly armed.

Tom cast a very basic Diagnostic Charm on Radford. It came back negative.

Harry gritted his teeth. The woman had been a damn good Obliviator, a leader of a squad and well-connected in the Ministry. Damn Tom's faith in his own invulnerability! Couldn't he have paused to think? The worst that could have happened would be them missing the arrival of the Ministry delegation-

With a series of whooshing sounds, dozen wizards were deposited in the hall. Harry swiftly inventoried faces: Lucius Malfoy was standing in the front, next to Gawain Robards, who led the whole group. There were Hayes, Tonks and Ector Weasley, but the rest Harry didn't know… except, naturally, Dumbledore.

Harry stepped closer before he could stop himself, and Dumbledore raised his head, piercing him with a pair of cerulean eyes. Harry had expected the accusation, naturally, but he wasn't quite as confident as to not be affected by it. The old man didn't look too bad – he hadn't been starved or beaten, hadn't been subjected to great many distasteful things that usually happened to prisoners of Voldemort… but still, there was something ugly about him, about the way he looked at Harry like he was telling him-

"_Don't look into his eyes_," Tom hissed.

Harry blinked and the spell was broken. He had to bite his tongue, otherwise he would not have been able to control what came out of his mouth at the moment. Dumbledore was silently casting a compulsion on him – now, on the front steps of the prison he had been sentenced to, while Tom was but a few steps away.

"_Is he trying to provoke us into killing him_?" Harry asked, worried. It wasn't easy to anger him that much, but with Tom, especially lately, one never knew.

"_Cursed old crook_…"

"Lords Riddle!" Lucius exclaimed, exuding benevolence with an edge of indignation. He glanced at Robards, before he decided that the man wouldn't try to stir up trouble, and continued: "How good of you to join us! Will you accompany us to the cells?"

"Can we trouble you for medical assistance?" Harry asked, conforming to the tune of the conversation in a way Tom never could, for Tom always controlled the conversation and dictated its tune himself. Harry gestured to Radford's prone form. He was well aware that she was dead and no one could do anything about it, but it still didn't feel acceptable to him to just let her lie there like that.

Weasley and one of the unknown witches separated from the group and crouched next to the dead woman. The rest of the procession moved, led by one of the guards, into the depths of the building. Tom found a place near Dumbledore, observing the old man, searching for the tiniest sign of an attempt to escape. Harry made certain that Theodore wasn't separated from him, and followed.

The remaining guard gave him a blank look that somehow conveyed a threat as Harry walked past his station.

They passed through the first and the second floor, and came to a grille at the mouth of the staircase on the third level. Through it Harry could see a corridor that spanned from the front of Nurmengard to the back, but that only had three cells on each side, most of which looked unoccupied. The guard pulled out a ring with huge unwieldy jingling keys, and paused to select the correct one.

Suddenly, a voice spoke from the furthermost cell on the right: "_Versuch gar nicht mir zu sagen, dass du noch 'was vergessen hast! Jürgen! Jürgen_?"

Harry didn't understand the words, but his eyes were drawn to a pale, long-fingered hand that was gripping one of the bars, and his heart skipped a beat when he realised who the speaker was.

Theodore, on his side, drew a sharp breath.

The guard laughed, pushed against the grille and then held it open for them to come through. "_Sie bekommen Gesellshaft_!" he called.

Tom went first, followed closely by the two men in Hitwizard robes who dragged Dumbledore between them. Harry somehow passed through the throng, absently clearing his way – even Malfoy stepped to the side to let him through without being bidden – and stood next to Tom, close enough so that they could feel each other's Shield.

Now they could see the insides of the occupied cell; it looked more like a luxurious suite, complete with a study and a library. The man inside was old. There were frown-lines on his face, although Harry guessed that there was far less of them than there should have been at his age. He had shoulder-length white hair, a neatly trimmed short beard, and wore a warm, comfortable robe. His eyes – the colour reminded Harry of Remus Lupin – took in the spectacle, and a smile played on his lips. He closed the book he was holding in his left hand and deposited it on a desk.

The guard unlocked the door to the opposite cell, and the Hitwizards manhandled Dumbledore inside, with entirely unnecessary vehemence.

"Oh, the unfathomable irony!" The prisoner threw his head back and laughed until he started wheezing.

Dumbledore's brows furrowed. He righted his robes and looked up as the bars clanged shut behind him. "I admit I still feel slightly too bitter to be able to properly appreciate it."

"Oh no, I did not mean your residence within this humble abode, although that undoubtedly is an ironic twist of fate on its own. I meant this!" the old man gestured to Tom and Harry, who were standing inside each other's intimate zone. "History indeed repeats itself! The Dark Lord, the Champion of Light, and the entire epic, star-crossed love-story – don't tell me they don't remind you of us, Albus!"

"Gellert?" For once, Dumbledore looked utterly gobsmacked. Those few in Robards' entourage who had not as of yet recognised the warlock stared, in several cases open-mouthed.

Harry smiled and turned from Grindelwald to Albus, recalling their scuffle in front of Azkaban, and what had been said there. "We promised. We delivered."

Tom was somewhat exasperated with the comment, but at the same time it stroked his ego, which he needed after he had missed out on Dumbledore's trial.

"If we're done here, Mr Malfoy," Robards spoke, uneasy in the charged atmosphere between four inimical ultra-powerful wizards, "my men and I ought to return to the Ministry."

"Indeed," Lucius replied, collected as ever, except that Harry would have bet that beneath his gloves his knuckles were white from gripping his cane so hard. "If the Lords Riddle do not mind, I shall accompany you – the Minister wanted a word with me." He looked at Tom, silently asking for instructions.

"Certainly," Tom allowed. He presented the very pinnacle of magnanimity as he stood off to the side, looking – absurdly – as though he was elevated above the other men, as if the procession trickling towards the grille held open by a warden was there for him. Harry might have felt almost waylaid, except that he was content to stand in Tom's shadow, a mere supporting presence and strength to occasionally lean onto.

The Nurmengard guard gesticulated, and Harry hit him with the finest Confundus he could manage, just enough to make him uncertain if he was supposed to lock up or not, and then sent the man off with an imperious wave.

The four wizards remained alone in the corridor. Time was short, for the warden would return momentarily, once his fellows downstairs would question him on why he had left the two Lords unsupervised. Harry had intentionally not put enough force behind the spell to cause him long-term trouble; he wasn't even sure what Tom wanted. To gloat? It wouldn't be entirely unlike him…

"_What now_?" Harry asked.

Grindelwald was watching them with a glint in his eyes, regal even behind bars, in his comfortable robe, with his aura of content that made it seem like he was enjoying his retirement at a tropical resort. He had charisma that deeply impressed Harry, who was married to _Tom_ – it was hardly a surprise that Dumbledore as a boy had fallen for it.

"We can do pretty much whatever we want," Harry suggested, observing Dumbledore.

The old warlock sank into a chair – a bone-like, wooden, hard piece of furniture that, Harry would have bet, _didn't_ have Cushioning Charms on it – and fastened his eyes to Harry's face. Astonishingly, even locked in a cell he was _still_ doing his damnedest to put the one he considered the easier victim under a compulsion. He displayed tenacity not expected of him, which could, abstractly, be respected… but the effort was in vain.

"Until they stop us," Tom said pensively, watching the former Dark Lord with a mixture of pity and concern.

Harry looked away from the erstwhile headmaster to the German wizard, who was much more interesting.

Grindelwald shifted his weight, making himself more comfortable yet. His expression was mild even as his sharp eyes met Tom's with an unspoken challenge. "You are wise, for such a sprite," the man said.

"I assure you I am older than I look," Tom replied nonchalantly, which almost set Harry off in a fit of laughter. Fortunately, he managed to hold it back.

"Stomachache?" Grindelwald asked, nonplused by Harry's strained expression.

Harry snorted.

Tom shook his head, trailing his gloved fingers along the stones that separated Dumbledore's new home from the corridor. He was either detecting spells, or leaving behind a _treat_. "I should have tried harder to teach you propriety," he muttered.

Harry recalled the many do's he had attended during his seventh year at Hogwarts, being introduced to higher society and the way higher society lived. Looking back, it baffled him just how much he had been willing to change for the boy he had fallen in love with. It had happened at the only point in his life when he might have been capable of such a change – surely, today he would expect a much greater tolerance for his opinions and idiosyncrasies. Back then Tom had appeared so self-assured, as if he had untangled the mess of politics and money and favours and baseless pride the wizarding world consisted of, and he had made people believe in him simply by appearing like he knew what he was doing. Harry missed that unshakeable faith, but at the same time he relished in being able to see his husband as a human, healthily flawed, as opposed to the somewhat supernatural being 'Voldemort' had set himself up as.

"I'm sorry, Tom," Harry said, shaking his head. A teenage Voldemort had been a force of nature, cold and hot in unpredictable intervals. "I just cannot reconcile the word 'sprite' with what I know about you."

"It is you who made me look like this, Harry," Tom pointed out, almost gently. "Now hush – I want to talk to this carcass."

Grindelwald didn't show affront. He took the slight with confidence that should be expected of someone like him, but which seemed alien to Harry, who was used to pride going hand in hand with an in-your-face kind of arrogance. Everything about Grindelwald was understated, from the grey cotton he wore to the amiable front he presented.

"I am by no means young, Gellert," Tom replied, brash and clumsy in comparison. "Nowhere near as ancient as you, admittedly, but I could have been my husband's grandfather."

That sounded so wrong. Harry grimaced. Merlin, they had been _peers_ when they married!

"And you are as old as you look?" Grindelwald asked of Harry, now curious.

"No." When Grindelwald's eyebrows rose somewhere behind his scraggly matt of hair, Harry relented and added: "I am, physically, a bit younger than I look."

The warden clattered up the stairs then, narrow-eyed and ready to attempt and kick them out. Since the moment had been broken, Harry was perfectly willing to leave without being bidden to. Tom also recognised the wisdom of un-postponed departure, and beckoned Harry to precede him, casting one last contemptuous look at the now thoroughly defeated Albus Dumbledore.

Harry didn't have much understanding for the theatre. Tom was still angry about being left out from the legal machinery that had sentenced the old man, relieved that this particular fight was over, and apprehensive of the potential usurpers competing for the role of the leader of the Light. He could go around sneering and smirking, but Harry had a peep-hole straight into his heart, and right now he wasn't feeling very reassured.

After years upon years of effort, he had to doubt whether this was a true victory. Was it normal for the win to taste like nightshade?

x

Harry finished answering his correspondence by half past ten, and decided he had deserved a break from the endless paperwork. He did his best to lighten Tom's load as he could, but it didn't seem to be helping – more and more forms were arriving by the day, money was offered and asked for, favours were called upon and received, alliances proposed and accepted. He couldn't tell anymore just how many people were on their side: on some days it seemed like their sole enemy in Britain was Amelia Bones, on others Harry was hard-pressed to think of a sympathetic soul outside of the Nott Manor.

He was getting sick of being caged, and that was nothing compared to how irritated Tom was acting. He had started on his routine of Cruciating anyone who breathed too loudly in his presence, and the Death Eaters only ever came to him when they had to.

Harry couldn't think of kissing Tom without wanting to vomit – so embroiled in the Dark Arts he had become again, simply through relieving his stress.

Harry wanted to relieve some stress, too. Chewing on a chunk of chocolate – he ate too much of that stuff these days – he walked across the grounds. This part, out of sight from the Manor itself, had been converted into a training centre of a kind. Young recruits were taught spells beyond Hogwarts level plus some strategy, senior Death Eaters came to practice. Harry nodded to the male Lestranges and Selwyn who, despite his age, managed some impressive moves.

The young ones bowed as he passed, since he was giving off the aura of an impromptu inspection. Harry could have guessed their houses from their expressions: curious, distrustful, scared, reverent. They were children yet, some barely out of Hogwarts, and Harry had the suspicion that his indifference to whether they would have to go to battle for the New Order made him more than slightly evil.

"Would you like to spar, my Lord?" a Death Eater asked. It took Harry a moment, but eventually he identified the wizard as Eustace Montague.

"Why not?" Harry shrugged. It had been a while since he had had an opportunity to stretch his limbs and give his magic a bit of space.

Eustace hexed the 'free' mark off the arch covered with wild roses, and stepped through. The area – a square with the side of perhaps twenty yards – was separated from others like it by an invisible barrier of wards.

"One on one?" Harry asked, just to make sure. Montagues were one of those traditionally Slytherin families.

"Yes, sir," Montague replied. There was a shift in both his stance and his tone, and the hint of self-preservationist servility disappeared as he readied himself for the fight. "No life-threatening spells, if you agree. Only curses that the caster can counter. The duel ends with inability to continue or a request."

"Agreed," Harry said. Montague had effectively eliminated any verbal tricks – a plea to stop was as good as surrender. Besides, Eustace was one of those whose ambitions were being fulfilled in their continued service, so it was in his own interest that the Dark Lord duo remained uncompromised.

"Begin?" Montague asked.

"Begin!" Harry replied.

The word wasn't yet out if his mouth, and already he had to step out of the way of a blast. He didn't counter-attack, though, confident enough in his Buckler to stand back and take the time to evaluate his opponent's style.

Montague Apparated behind his back and cast another curse. Harry used himself as a grounding point and swung his Buckler around, leaving a brilliant comet-like tail in the air.

Already, he was satisfied with the level of competence Montague exhibited.

"_Extorqueo_!"

Harry knew the yell was a diversion, because Montague had already displayed his ability to cast nonverbally, so he ducked and, in the middle of the dodge, unnoticed, dropped a shapeless, invisible blob of magic onto the ground. It spilt like liquid and continued expanding.

A curse incompatible with Harry's Buckler created an explosion upon impact, and he Apparated away from the power-charged sparks, Disillusioning himself a bat of an eyelash after he materialised.

His opponent wasn't searching for him; the slithering charm had reached his feet and paralysed him. Harry walked up to him, plucked the wand out of his hand, and then cancelled the magic.

Montague was mature enough not to pout and get insulted that Harry had been playing with him. He accepted his defeat, as well as the ease with which Harry had won, and treated the experience with modesty. "It was an honour, my Lord."

"And a pleasure," Harry replied. It would have been more pleasurable if he had had two or three wizards against him, or perhaps a free for all… "I might drop by again."

Perhaps he would, if his already too full timetable allowed for it. Maybe _next time_ Tom was inspecting Hogwarts and didn't want Harry along for the ride.

x

Tom returned with a whole bloody _promenade_ of people that wanted things. Harry didn't have a clue where he had found them – McGonagall wouldn't have let them all into Hogwarts, for sure.

Harry caught his eye and attempted to offer himself up instead – he had had a relaxing duel in the morning – but Tom shook his head and sent him off to do more _paperwork_ instead. Thus Harry sat between the four walls of the Private Study that were coming to enclose twelve hours of his daily life, trying to figure out why, with Hogwarts being autonomous and Ministry practically untouched, it was them who did the administrative.

It made no sense – unless a bureaucratic war was being waged on them, and this was so much red tape to slow down their rapid advance.

"It is an effective defensive measure, my Lord," Aurelius Avery's voice filtered in, followed by the sounds of footsteps and doors being opened. "Historically, it has been successful many times – the Lady Libitina, for example, as well as the Dark Lord de Bois-Guilbert had both become Ministers, and yet the changes they intended to implement never occurred."

Apparently, Harry had been uncannily spot-on with his suspicion of bureaucracy being their new enemy.

"Nevertheless," Tom replied, stepping into the room, enhanced with cosmetic spells that made him look completely different from how Harry knew he looked, "it is essential that a reliable agent of the Order holds the position."

"With all due respect," Aurelius protested, while he waited until after Tom had sat down, found a seat for himself, and nodded to Harry, "my Lords, I would prefer to be a teacher."

Tom did not react immediately, although the bond conveyed his displeasure. Harry, on the other hand, thought it was splendid. He had little idea what state Hogwarts was in, past that McGonagall was getting grey hair trying to manage everything and had asked in a letter that Harry 'instruct' his follower's children to keep their heads down and not cause any more incidents. Harry had full intention of getting the particulars and putting the fear of justice into some of those kids… with Malfoy, the main troublemaker, going first.

It would have been much more convenient, however, if he had a proxy right there in the castle; it would do away with the hassle of indirect summons and secondary punishments for the Malfoy-like liberal interpretation of direct orders. Aurelius, although a couple of years past his zenith, was a formidable and well-respected Dark wizard.

"Which subjects do you feel you are qualified to teach?" Harry asked, moments before Tom could shoot down the suggestion.

"I could have a Mastery in Dark Arts, if it was legal," Aurelius replied, eyes flicking between Harry to whom he was replying and Tom, who, if one knew his mannerism, seemed on the verge of cursing something. "Consequently, I am accomplished in Defence against them – not quite Master level, but certainly above N.E.W.T. level." Aurelius raked his hand through his recently cut grey hair and, reluctantly, added: "I suppose, with some review, I could teach Ancient Runes."

Tom, with his mind like quicksilver, had already digested the proposition, imagined the possible outcomes, weighed the pros and cons, and let go of his initial anger. Pensively, he stroked his lower lip. "We could add Dark Arts to Hogwarts curriculum."

"Don't make Light children learn Dark Arts, Tom," Harry protested, and hastened to continue before he became the target of Tom's ire: "Make it an elective, perhaps with the option of only doing theoretical work. Of course, that means there should also be Light Arts. Again, with the option of only doing theory."

Tom struggled with accepting Light Arts – similarly to how Dumbledore would have in an inverse situation – but he had Harry to help him strike a compromise between his Dark-utopian Vision and what was going to work.

"_You're probably right_…" he said in Parseltongue, unable to admit that he was wrong in front of a Death Eater. His charmed-on face was beginning to dissipate around the edges. His eyes were bloodshot, like they had been after he had created his second Horcrux.

"_I realise you don't like Light Arts_," – and that was putting it mildly – "_but half of the population feels the same way about Dark Arts, Tom. We don't want a civil war. The people have to feel reasonably comfortable and safe_."

"_Panem et circenses_," Tom replied. He did not care; the bond went still with his indifference.

"_Not quite_." Harry shook his head.

Aurelius was doing a good job of pretending not to be intimidated but, as many Dark wizards, he too had an instinctual reaction to hearing Parseltongue spoken.

"_We want them sophisticated – well, as much as possible_."

"_I know_," Tom said. "_I am just_…"Hhe fell silent, searching for the correct word or unwilling to finish the statement. Either was a testament to how emotionally drained he was.

Harry filled in a 'getting used to making compromises again' inside his head, and snapped his fingers. A house elf breezed by, depositing a tray with sweets by Tom's elbow. Tom glared, but he needed the energy, and there was no way Harry was allowing him another coffee or another dose of some potion. If Tom insisted, it would probably end in a brawl, both of them getting hurt, and Harry re-learning to cry.

"Will you be able to work under Minerva, Aurelius?" Harry asked to chase the depressing thoughts away.

"McGonagall?"

"Yes."

Judging from the sour expression on Aurelius' face, he had not asked because he was confused between namesakes, but because he would have preferred to receive a negative response. "She is-"

"The only one around who has experience with Hogwarts administration," Harry said uncompromisingly. "She is level-headed, intelligent, unbiased. Unless she stands against us, there is no earthly reason to dispose of her." And she wasn't going to stand against them. She wasn't going to kneel at their feet and kiss the ground they walked on either, but Harry honestly preferred it so, because the alternative didn't bear thinking.

"I don't want Dumbledore's people in positions of power," Tom spoke up. His index finger traced the rim of the tray, but not a single piece of confection was missing.

"She will take a deputy that will keep an eye on her. Apropos, Aurelius?"

"Very well, my Lords," the old Death Eater replied, inclining his head. "Never in my life have I imagined I'd end up as a deputy Headmaster at Hogwarts…"

"Not unless it is what you wish," Harry reminded him.

"Should I become displeased with the position, I will ask to be relieved of it." Sensing that his presence was no longer required, Aurelius rose and excused himself.

Tom maintained his stringent hold on his pretence of good health – for maybe half a minute. Then he let go of the charms, and the transformation was so abrupt, so shocking, that it gave Harry goosebumps.

"We should concentrate on picking a new Minister and legalising the next year's curriculum," Tom said. Even his voice was different, _sick_.

Despite the distraction, Harry didn't need to see into Tom's head to know what he was thinking. "No. I am quite comfortable being the first Light Dark Lord. Besides, you have seen me in Slughorn's parties. I'm not someone you want to stick in with a bunch of arselickers and wait for explosion-"

"No one, not even the Death Eaters, would want _Voldemort_ as their Minister," Tom replied, twisting his lips in a parody of smile.

Perhaps not – though Harry was far from convinced of it – but that wasn't a good enough reason for Harry to sacrifice himself and take the mantle. Aside from the function and its obligations taking him far away from Tom… he simply didn't have the sense for politics.

"Could we get away with disestablishing the function?" he mused. Would the army of clerks work just as well if it was decapitated? Certainly Fudge could not have been fit to provide any reasonable instructions?

"Theoretically," Tom said, "but the most stable system requires a triumvirate of power – you and I are one point, Hogwarts is another… we need the Ministry, and the Ministry needs its figurehead."

It was a pity Elijah was dead. He would have been great in that position. Amos might have been almost as good, had he not gone… unstable.

"Andromeda Tonks, if she was amenable?" Harry suggested. The name had come to him out of blue, and he had to concentrate to find some kind of reasoning that he could present. Like in so many other instances, his choice was purely instinctual.

"Why?" Tom asked, predictably.

"She's Light but not Dumbledore's," Harry stated, not entirely sure why it mattered. Tom, who had a much better head for social and political strategising, might have been able to spot something. "She was born a Black, has had the standard Dark pureblood upbringing, but married a muggleborn. She would be able to deal with Light and Dark wizards both, regardless of the purity of their blood. I've talked to her and we've exchanged several letters. She's interested in a revolution, but not in a war. She didn't want to endanger her family by going against Voldemort."

Tom sighed and pushed away the tray of chocolate – untouched. "Let's leave Scrimgeour where he is, and keep her as an option. She would need to go into the Ministry now and make a name for herself first. You could maybe offer her the Black seat on the Wizengamot? We're not doing anything with it anyway."

Harry had completely forgotten that the Blacks had a hereditary seat, and that he had inherited the position. He was perfectly fine with having Andromeda represent him. What he wasn't perfectly alright with was the wait.

"I don't like Scrimgeour." Harry had intended to present it like a serious worry, but in the end he sounded petulant to himself. Scrimgeour could be intimidated, and that was one of the most important qualities in a stooge.

Much to his surprise, Tom inclined his head in concession. "Me neither."

x

Around ten in the evening, Tom tripped into their bed – over his own two feet.

Harry paused in perusing the scroll he had borrowed from the Notts' library – it contained a charm that incinerated its object while all heat was kept localised – and shook his head. He reached out to help Tom disrobe, ready for all recriminations and professions of self-sufficiency.

"Tom," he said, "you are an utter failure at pacing yourself."

"_Harry_," Tom replied. He was mocking Harry, but at least he had raised his head from the pillows. "That was the least helpful assertion I have heard today, even taking into account that I have engaged in discourse with the Hogwarts Board of Governors."

Harry took a deep breath and forced himself to calm down. He was pissed off – no more delicate way of putting it – and frustrated almost to tears, but breaking down and screaming (or blubbering) wouldn't have gotten through to Tom. Quite the opposite, Harry was sure Tom would have become angry as well and dismissed Harry's admonishments _a priori_, and very likely express his sentiments with another Stunning Spell.

"Take this and let me rest," Tom pushed a clasped-together sheaf of paper at him.

Harry set the library scroll aside and glanced over the uppermost page of Tom's gift. Startled, he lifted it and looked at the second, and the third one, too, just to make sure he was seeing what he thought he was seeing.

"When did you find time for this?" he whispered. Yes, he _had_ asked about how the Mark worked, but it wasn't pressing, certainly not compared to their other engagements. The notion that, instead of using every free moment to make up for his sleep deficit, Tom had written a manual for him, made him irrationally angry.

"You said you wanted it," Tom replied with mild reproach, "so I made it for you."

"Merlin…"

Harry had not realised just how spot on he had been with the allusion that Tom failed at self-management. Tom needed someone to create a schedule for him, and to _make_ him follow it, otherwise he was going to run himself into the ground and die of exhaustion on the brink of his victory.

"When this chaos calms down a bit," Harry said, putting the papers down next to the scroll, "let's move somewhere else, somewhere that will be just ours. Like before." He remembered 1945 and 1946 as the happiest years of his life. It wasn't going to be like that ever again, but that didn't mean they couldn't create their own piece of the world, where they would be content.

"Things are different now," Tom said. It was a clear 'no'.

"Yes, they are," Harry admitted, but he wasn't willing to relinquish the plan. "But we're not… Okay, maybe we are somewhat different, too, but the way I feel about you has not changed, and I want to do everything in my power to make you happy, so, unless you would prefer that I didn't, I'd like to create a home for us. Not for _me_, Tom. Don't answer according to what you think I want. Tell me what _you_ want."

"Right at this moment, I really don't care."

Harry, stunned, watched Tom pull the covers over himself and roll onto his side. His eyes remained glued to Tom's back – which looked more like a cocoon of sheets – as he tried to ignore the stabbing pain in his chest and just _understand_. He must have said something wrong, must have been somehow inconsiderate or even selfish… or maybe he had just picked a wrong moment. Maybe Tom was so tired that he couldn't think straight and didn't want to regret his initial decision later. It was truly too far-reaching an action to be planned in the dead of night after a gruelling day.

Harry scoffed at himself. It was amazing how good at self-placation he was becoming. It took skill, and a lot of Slytherin guile, to avoid lying to himself in the process.

The last thing he felt like doing right now was to crawl into bed next to Tom and stare at the ceiling for hours before his mind would exhaust itself and mercifully allow him to steal a bit of sleep. He rose to his feet, pulled Tom's discarded cloak over his nightclothes and exited their suite.

He tried to ignore his surroundings, tried to get lost in the Manor he knew fairly well; he almost succeeded, too, except that he happened upon Theodore Nott the Second in a compromising position with Dexia Japes. Reminded of why _he_ wasn't in a compromising position right now, Harry spun on his heel and went to the wing he knew as well as the back of his hand, but where he was almost certain he wouldn't encounter a soul.

He ended up on the dilapidated balcony that used to oversee the flower gardens, back in the time when there had been flower gardens around the Western Wing. In 1945 there had been remains of them, overgrown by weed. Now there was only the weed, and even that kept low to the ground, as if afraid of growing too tall and being cut down. Harry could vaguely make out the garden fountain with the statue of a faun; it used to be white as alabaster, shining into the night, but rain and wind had coated it with grime and made it fade into background. On a whim, Harry cast a strong Cleaning Charm that traversed the distance and restored the original glow to the structure. He thought about asking the Notts to check the piping and let it spout water again, but then scrapped that idea as childish and whimsical.

In the middle of a revolution, no one cared about a bloody fountain.

He rested his palms on the banister, for a change feeling the cold marble under his fingers. Gloves worn everyday protected him from the outside world, but they also separated him, and he had almost forgotten what it was like to touch anything other than the objects within his living quarters… and Tom. He could never forget what touching Tom felt like, even if they were going through a patch of sexual dearth.

Harry, inadvertently, masochistically, thought back to Tom's and his wedding night. It was the most magically charged experience of his life, and thinking that he would likely never experience anything on that scale again depressed him. He wondered if there was a way to rouse the bond magic again, if not to the same level then at least higher than it usually rose on its own. There must have been shelves of books on wedding bonds, and somewhere in some of them, there must have been instructions on how to manipulate the magic, how it could make the wizards' physical bodies endure more, how it could heighten their sensitivity…

He was being selfish again, he knew. He had promised Tom to be there for him, to stop him when he was making a mistake, and Harry firmly believed that right now Tom was making a mistake in overworking himself, trying to accomplish too much too fast. It occurred to him, out of blue, that it might have been his fault – maybe Tom was feeling somewhat overshadowed after Harry had accidentally accomplished a good half of the New Order's plans within a day… but he had honestly never meant to. It wouldn't have worked if he had meant to do it. It was just a stupid anomaly, or fate, or the doing of some kind of deity with a twisted sense of humour.

There was a shift in the ambient magic, and Harry knew that he wasn't alone anymore. For a split second he deluded himself into thinking that perhaps Tom… but Tom was asleep within the Green Suite two levels beneath Harry's feet, and the person standing beneath the arch that separated the terrace from the inside of the Manor was someone else.

"My Lord Harry…?" a soft voice said.

Harry was glad of who had found him; anyone else would have been too much tonight. This was a wizard whom he felt he could trust, at least. "You know us too well, Antonin, if you recognise me from the back, in darkness, when I'm wearing Tom's cloak," he said plaintively.

"Are you brooding, my Lord?" Antonin inquired, bravely stepping forth, ready to bear the brunt of Harry's displeasure. It was a rare occasion when Harry lost his temper and cursed someone, but it wasn't unheard of, and Antonin presumably knew Harry well enough to realise the danger he was courting by interrupting him when he was in a bad mood.

Still, he was to be lucky today. Harry felt like he was already failing, and didn't care to lengthen his list of mistakes by adding harm done to one of his few friends.

"I suppose I am," he replied instead. When Antonin joined him at the banister, Harry glanced at him and said: "Tell me honestly, my friend, has my concern become a liability?"

The man sighed and shook his head. The lines on his forehead deepened as he stared through the darkness at the statue Harry had made shine again. "All of us are concerned, my Lord," Antonin told him, "but none are so daring as to say it aloud. We depend on you in this matter."

Apparently, the abysmal state of Tom's health hadn't gone unnoticed among the Death Eaters. That in itself was a source of consternation, for if the Marked followers took it into their heads that Tom wasn't strong enough to control them anymore, they might rebel at the worst possible time. Aside from that, Tom's appearance didn't qualify him to represent the New Order in the public anymore. Those duties would have to be handled by Harry, who couldn't imagine he wouldn't bungle them.

"What do you think I should do?" Harry asked, at wits' end.

"Be firm," Antonin replied simply. "Don't let him ignore you. Be cruel, if necessary."

Harry sneered, but he knew that what his friend was telling him made sense. "Be cruel to the man I love…" He nodded confidently. "I can do that."


	13. Persuasion

A/N: Visionary is beyond excuses, so I offer none. There's been enough of an edit to merit re-reading, in my own humble opinion (added some stuff I originally wanted to have in, but forgot about during the writing process). Hope you'll enjoy this chapter. Reviews are always welcome.

Brynn

x

Chapter Twelve: Persuasion

x

The marble pillars stretched up on both Harry's sides, and he couldn't help but wonder why on Earth goblins decided to keep the entrance to the bank so outlandishly… asymmetrical. For a race as anal as he had come to believe they were, it seemed most unlikely to tolerate such an architectonical failure.

"Lord Riddle?"

Harry glanced away from the stretching Ionic pillars to the entrance of the Bank, where a goblin dressed in a garment suspiciously similar to a muggle business suit was standing. The creature seemed at ease, but judging by the scars marring his face, there was very little in the world that could have discomfited him. A wannabe-Lord wizardling would have barely registered.

"Mr Grabaxe?" Harry asked, tucking a disobedient lock of his hair behind his ear and smiling a nervous little smile. He wasn't meant to be a diplomat, and talks with the Goblin pseudo-nation had never been a very safe endeavour.

"If you would follow me…"

Without waiting for a response, the goblin spun and entered the Bank through the tall glass doors. Harry hurried, half-worried he would embarrass himself (and the New Order) by losing his escort in the sea of morning customers. Fortunately, all high-ranking Gringotts officials seemed to suffer an approximation of the Red Sea syndrome: the crowds parted for Grabaxe, and Harry found that the aisle only stretched further once the mass realised exactly who it was that followed on the goblin's heels.

Out of the corner of his eye he could see guards on the move, strategically positioning themselves so that no one unsanctioned would be able to approach Harry. It was, objectively speaking, a wonderfully executed paramilitary action. Harry should know. He had never seen the Death Eaters manage anything approaching this.

"Do not be alarmed, Lord Riddle," the goblin warned him, and a moment later the floor swallowed them.

Harry _was_ alarmed. His magic reacted instinctually, but it was immediately placated by something greater and encompassing, something he was tempted to fancifully call Earth. It certainly wasn't any creature.

He landed softly; the sound of his shoes hitting the floor was muffled by rich red carpet.

Grabaxe was standing next to him, with a hint of smugness on his face.

"Be welcome," a deep voice spoke from Harry's right side.

Harry didn't immediately turn that way. He catalogued his surroundings first. He seemed to be underground, inside a chamber that was about as big as the entire Dursley house, and which didn't seem to have any visible exits. He sensed around for wards – there were none, but that Earth-like pseudo entity that had neutralised him earlier would be able to block his portkeys and Apparition.

If the goblins were trying to intimidate him, they were going about it the right way. Harry was fairly sure that if he was attacked, he would be able to kill the beings surrounding him and blast out, but Tom would probably not survive trying to deal with the fallout of another goblin rebellion, so that was a last resort plan.

And now was really the worst time to think about Tom, Harry mused, looking around at the wizened goblins that were watching him with thinly veiled curiosity and expectation. There were about a dozen of them – no, aside from Grabaxe, there were exactly dozen. Six elders and six guards, going by their attire and weaponry. Very little was known about the structure of the modern goblin society and the administration of Gringotts, but Harry's private guess was that these six representatives were an approximation of an Areopagus.

"Thank you for inviting me," Harry replied eventually.

"We were rather surprised to see you arrive without a retinue, your Lordship," one of the elders remarked, lacing his long, clawed fingers, with his elbows resting on the luxurious curved mahogany table that came up to the middle of Harry's thigh.

Harry was not afraid of the Goblin nation, and he wanted them to know it, but it also would have been very impolite to say it like that, so he settled for replying: "My followers are protective to a fault. I doubt they would have been as accepting of uncomfortable surprises as I am." It was only polite to inform the goblins that he didn't like their little show of power, and that they had to try much harder to impress him.

"In that case," spoke the goblin elder sitting last to the left, distinguishable by a purple decoration on his cape-like overcoat, "please be lenient with our unseemly conduct." He grinned, showing off dangerously sharp, but pearly white teeth.

Harry had the feeling that they were making fun of him. It was disconcerting, but also somewhat refreshing. It had been some time since anyone had had the courage to tease him.

What did bother him about the situation was the fact that this was supposed to be a diplomatic talk. Failing that, it would probably turn into a hostage situation and a start of a war.

He wished Tom were there with him to help him make sense of the proceedings. And, once again, Harry failed to prevent himself from thinking about Tom when he should have been concentrating on the here and now. He wasn't exactly angry at Tom. He was more like… spitting mad. And he did his best to keep himself in that mood, because it was helping him think of plans he could implement to make Tom eat and sleep, at least until he resembled a human being again.

Unfortunately, being a hair's breadth away from casting Cruciatus at the first person to look at him wrong wasn't particularly conductive to diplomacy, so Harry was storing his emotional state behind a rough Occlumentic barrier. Thus he faced the goblins feeling decidedly colourless and two-dimensional. Still, at least he wasn't physically colourless and two-dimensional, unlike some other Dark Lords he could name.

"Are you well, Lord Riddle?" Grabaxe inquired, concerned. "We have never had any intention of harming you-"

"Fine," Harry cut in a little rudely. "Disoriented," he lied, "but then, I imagine, _that_ was the intention?"

"Not at all," the purple-decorated elder assured him. "Please, forgive an old goblin his little pleasures."

Harry nodded. He recalled Dumbledore's game with inviting people into his office by name. He assumed that this was a similar whim. He was not offended. His pride was not nearly as fragile as to sustain any damage from a harmless joke.

"If you can accept a young man's lack of grace," he returned.

Most of the audience seemed to be amused. The purple elder, who had apparently been chosen as the speaker, gestured toward a human-sized armchair situated opposite the long mahogany desk, in a focus of the desk's arc.

With a bow-like nod, Harry accepted the seat. The chair was comfortable, although it lacked any of the charms Harry was used to from living in purebloods' houses.

"My name," the goblin on the left end continued, "translates as Glintrock. You are welcome to call me that."

"Thank you, Glintrock," Harry replied. He didn't bother reintroducing himself for the umpteenth time. Glintrock had shown, with his joke, with the teasing, and now with the introduction, that he was not interested in formality for the sake of formality. That reassured Harry, who was less comfortable with formality than Tom.

It also made Harry a little more hopeful that they were here to actually settle some issues, and not just posture at one another.

"I am an archont – a high administrator, if you will," Glintrock explained. "I have been given the authority to negotiate a treaty with your political movement, the so-called New Order."

x

Harry had not been present at many diplomatic talks in the past, but he had the strongest feeling that this conversation with the goblins was far from orthodox. They had hashed out most of the technical stuff quickly – how they imagined the New Order would gain foothold in the Ministry and the exact changes they wanted, plus also the request that Harry personally would be advocating their cause in the future, which he thought was really nearsighted of them, because Harry wasn't very good at advocating.

He was, admittedly, genuinely interested in procuring their rights for them. That might have been the reason why they got on so well.

Nevertheless, when they explained the earth-magic enveloping the chamber and the Hogwarts-like pseudo-sentience of Gringotts, and suggested that they move the rest of the talks into a less stifling atmosphere, Harry was slightly surprised. When they – a group of six amused goblin seniors – led him to what seemed to be a high-end casino, the day became downright surreal.

At least he was not the only one feeling like he had stepped into a twilight zone. Grabaxe was sitting in the corner of a booth (made of burnished dark wood), cradling his first drink and staring around him at the caterers and the gambling crème of the goblin society with bulging eyes.

Featherwing (Harry had been _stunned_ when he had introduced himself) periodically checked on the poor clerk and in gruff tones bade him to drink before the substance in his bowl would get cold. Glintrock and his companions spread around the table, which was rapidly becoming covered in drinks and finger-food, and pointed out what Harry might like.

"Do not worry, Commander," Treadpath assured him with a grin. He and a couple of others had taken to addressing Harry as 'Commander,' which was apparently an inside joke, because they always grinned when they did it. "We have a number of human foodstuffs on the menu."

"Yes, yes," Breeze confirmed. "They are 'novelties'." Breeze's actual name, according to Treadpath, translated as Windcaress, but he had long since refused to be called that. In Harry's opinion, Breeze wasn't much better, but the goblins treasured their traditions even as they welcomed progress.

Harry had known that not all of the goblin society was buried in the bank, but even he had had no idea just how much they had adopted from muggles, and how far they had spread in their 'Age of Enlightment,' as Silvertoe had jokingly called their gradual migration from the underground to the surface. Silvertoe, by his own admission, was not an administrator, but an actual _anthropologist_ with an actual _degree_, and politics was only his _hobby_. The 'goblins equals bankers' myth, which Harry had subscribed to as an eleven-year-old, was forever crushed for him.

"This is good," Harry praised, licking his fingers, which, Treadpath had assured him, was not only acceptable, but expected.

"We pride ourselves on being the best at what we do," Mossprint said with the air of someone who knew he deserved praise.

"Mossprint is the owner," Treadpath explained.

"My compliments," Harry said to Mossprint, nodding. The admission sparked curiosity about who exactly were these elders he was – perhaps – befriending.

He knew about Silvertoe's occupation; the others, when asked, took turns to explain their everyday jobs and their positions on the Council.

"The truth is," Glintrock admitted at last, taking a hearty gulp from his drinking bowl, "that I am retired, as you humans call it. Today I supple for current archont Flamebite the Glowering of the Northern Coast Clan."

Harry couldn't quite hide his surprise. He wasn't sure what the position of an archont meant, but his guess was something akin to a minister, or maybe a district administrator. Still, he had been under the impression that he was dining with the beings who would be in charge of setting the terms of the agreement with the New Order.

"You said you had the authority to sign the treaty."

Glintrock raised his hand, palm-out, in an effort to placate Harry. "Flamebite and I are in complete agreement on its terms. He trusts me." That went a long way in assuring Harry that they weren't conning him into anything here. Also, Glintrock's disarming grin seemed too sincere. "And I wished to meet you personally, Lord Riddle. You have not disappointed me."

"Thank you," Harry replied, bemused, resigning himself to the fact that he never would be a competent diplomat.

"I wrote down everything we want," Glintrock assured him. "I have it here somewhere…" He wriggled in his seat, searching for the inner pocket of his cape. He retrieved a piece of parchment – Harry had half-expected lined paper, but apparently the goblins hadn't yet gone completely muggle – and put it on the table for the whole company to peruse.

To Harry's surprise, the terms were written in English, by a hand that was obviously used to the script.

"An ambassador?" he read.

Glintrock nodded as sagely as a goblin who wore more metal in jewelry than in weapons could. "Ambassador to your Order, Lord Riddle, not the Ministry. Not yet, in any case. I have someone in mind for that position – you will get along very well, I promise you."

Harry hummed noncommittally. He was ready to believe that Glimrock would select a person able to deal with Harry, but there was no guarantee that they would be able to handle Tom as well, and Tom was still in charge of the Order, even if these days he was too busy to stop for five minutes and the Headquarter was practically self-governing. In fact, Antonin, the Lestranges, Apollonia, Dexia and the Theodores were doing so well that Harry hadn't even heard of a problem. Apparently, they did all in their power to keep Harry focused on returning Tom to normal. If there was such a thing as 'normal' for Tom.

Either way, Harry felt like he was failing in his only assigned task.

He read through the rest of the demands. It seemed too little to him, like they were just putting together a token protest, to make sure the wizards were busy haggling with them over trivialities and not watching as the other shoe would drop. Harry didn't like it.

"Why don't you declare yourself a sovereign nation?" he asked. Quite often in the past, the goblins were treated as such, anyway. It would take them out from under the Wizengamot's authority. They were already self-governing, so Harry didn't see a downside.

"_Shara nar marr_," Breeze muttered, and the goblins all laughed.

Glintrock shook his head in exasperation. "We are lucky that not all wizards are as bright as you, Lord Riddle."

Harry picked a canapé-like thing from the plate in front of him and nibbled on it to give himself the time to contemplate. The goblins wanted independence. They sought an alliance with the New Order, ostensibly pretending to involve themselves in the politics of the post-civil-war magical Britain, while aiming for complete split in the end. What Harry couldn't see was why they weren't forcing the split right now. Their economy was stronger that the Ministry's, their society completely separate, and they needed _nothing_ from the wizards. The way Harry saw it, the wizards' dependence on Gringotts only went one way.

Also, while he agreed that independence would be good for the goblins, and was perfectly willing to nurture positive relations between them and the Order, and could even imagine the advantages for the Order, he still didn't see why the goblins bothered.

Maybe there was a third shoe waiting to drop?

Harry could understand a general unwillingness to go to war. The company around this table – by their own admission some of the most powerful individuals of the nation – were all elder gentlemen used to a certain level of creature comforts. If the Ministry simply told them no, what would they do?

Why not just pick up their businesses and relocate? Unless… unless they couldn't. They were quite connected to the earth, weren't they? Nearly the whole bank was underground, and despite this 'Enlightenment Age' most of their history and valuables were underground. That was not to mention the self-aware earth-magic.

"This is all very reasonable," Harry concluded. "And all you are asking in return is the inviolability of your enclaves?"

"_Ank gijak-ishi_!" Mossprint exclaimed.

Apparently, Harry wasn't supposed to have figured out that much. Although, to be fair, he probably would not have put it together, had they not explained about the earth-magic.

"You are entirely unlike your fellow men, Commander," Treadpath muttered. "How is it that you do not think that we are out to slaughter your kin, eat the flesh off their bones, wear their scalps and burn their dwellings to the ground?"

Harry looked around the high-end casino where they were lounging. "How indeed?" he counter-questioned with enough sarcasm to make even Grabaxe grin.

"You might be surprised," Glintrock said, leaning forwards over the table, "but most Ministry wizards whose _job_ it is to mediate the relations between the Goblin nation and the wizarding one expect us to be gold-hoarding, axe-wielding brutes out to steal their wands from them."

Harry chuckled. "Frankly, I have major trouble even imagining a goblin warrior with a wand. None of the historical accounts ever mentioned wanded goblins." Seeing as he had suffered through five years of Hogwarts' History of Magic, he knew more than anyone ever wanted to know about goblins and their rebellions. "I rather assumed – and I mean absolutely no offence – that the regulation forbidding the ownership and use of wands to higher magical beings was put there to make the wizards feel better about themselves."

The whole table roared with free, barking belly-laughter.

"You are not incorrect, Lord Riddle," replied Silvertoe, who managed to calm down first. "Our magic does not respond so well to wands – or, rather, wands do not respond so well to our magic. We are much better off using other conduits."

"Which, of course, the Ministry does not regulate," Harry concluded. "Why would they? It might dent their arrogance if they were forced to admit they were inferior in any way."

"Commander," Glintrock spoke, still leaning close – close enough for Harry to notice certain hardness in his eyes, "as you have recently become aware, the Goblin nation has been in a close contact with the muggle population over the past decades. Our military power may be procured from non-magicals, but should it be unleashed, it would be staggering."

Harry had to give appreciation where appreciation was due. "And thus you want to completely renegotiate the treaties with wizards, in the meantime maintaining a _status quo_ reminiscent of the Cold War. Ingenious."

"You find it amusing?" Grabaxe seemed completely taken aback by this turn of events.

"Decidedly." Harry smirked, remembering Dumbledore's expression when he recognised Grindelwald in the cell opposite his. "I will gain much satisfaction from watching _some people's_ faces as they learn of this. Schadenfreude is one of my vices, I'm afraid."

"It is rare for a warlock to be willing to submit – much less submit so effortlessly," Glintrock pointed out skeptically.

Harry didn't think that he was submissive at all. He was stubborn and had quite the temper if provoked. However, the one thing Tom had never managed to instill into him was arrogance. "I grew up a servant, Glintrock," he explained. "My status was not a birthright. What my husband and I achieved is a result of will, determination, effort and a great amount of luck."

"At least you are not falsely modest," Breeze opined.

"My Lord husband and I are hardly the only extremely powerful wizards around." It was not bragging, Harry mentally assured himself. He was just stating the truth. He wouldn't try to intimidate these goblins, anyway – they were liable to laugh at him, and he wasn't sure if his ego could take it. "Power in itself, or even power combined with intelligence, is far from enough."

Glintrock sagely nodded.

"I'll drink to that!" Treadpath raised his bowl.

The other goblins raised theirs, so Harry followed the example. They drank – the goblins whatever it was they were drinking (Harry couldn't hope to repeat its name) and he a soda.

"Now we just have to write it all on a piece of parchment and sign," Glintrock said once the bowls were back on the table.

Harry almost choked on another canapé. "Are we actually in agreement on everything?" He didn't have that much experience, but he knew that this just didn't happen.

"Amazingly," Glintrock confirmed.

Silvertoe clapped his hands. "It might be the first occasion in history."

x

Having Apparated into the receiving room of the Nott manor, Harry felt much more disoriented than he had been after his unexpected drop into the Council Chamber at Gringotts. He found Theodore the Third waiting for him.

"Report?" Harry suggested, trying to focus. His left hand was almost spastically clutching the signed and sealed treaty, rolled up and tied with a ribbon made of gold fibre.

"Everything is as expected, my Lord," Theodore replied with a perfunctory bow. He fell into step with Harry, and together they set out for Tom's office. "There was a surplus of mail, and Rabastan enlisted my aid with sorting through it – I hope you do not mind."

"Thank you, Theodore," Harry replied. Truthfully, it was difficult to imagine a better follower than Theodore. Harry reminded himself that he should study through the manual Tom had put together for him and find the time to Mark this young man.

"It is my pleasure to serve, my Lord," Theo said quietly before he, more confidently, continued his report: "No discipline problems whatsoever. Mad-Eye Moody stopped by and expressed interest in making use of the training fields on our grounds – I made a note and left it on your desk. And, my Lord…"

Theodore halted on top of a staircase, and Harry stopped to listen.

He looked around to confirm that nobody was within earshot, and even so lowered his voice. "My Lord has yet to be witnessed eating today. Dexia saw him drink a dose of Nutrient Potion shortly before noon, and Dock reported two empty vials returned with the untouched lunch tray."

Harry closed his eyes and sighed. This information finally helped him find his focus. Frowning, he glanced at his companion. "Antonin was right. Speaking with him won't suffice this time."

Damn Tom's hard head!

Theodore braced himself, intimidated by Harry's anger, but he didn't flinch away when Harry reached out to him and put his hand on the boy's shoulder. "You do a good job, Theodore. This is my responsibility. I shall have to resort to more serious measures."

Harry left Theodore behind in the hallway and entered the Private Study turned office alone.

Tom was ensconced in Harry's chair, leaning back, with his eyes closed. When Harry entered, he looked over.

"Hey," Harry said, feeling inexplicably timid. For once he didn't know how to approach Tom, what to say that would make him listen but would not immediately put him of the defensive.

Tom pursed his lips. "Just tell me – are they or are they not rebelling?"

"Well, in a way," Harry admitted. It was revolution they sought, but there was only one example of a peaceful splitting of a country in recent history, so their chances were not exactly good. "It's a cold rebellion."

Still bonelessly sprawled, as if he was waiting for Harry to come to him, Tom quirked an eyebrow. "They want to exterminate us, but are all too aware that we'd take them with us?" He sounded like he had drunk a Calming Potion, too, or alternatively so tired that he felt apathetic to anything and everything. Knowing Tom, it was probably the second option.

"Not quite that bad," Harry reassured him. He came over to Tom's desk and surveyed the piles of parchment covering it. "They have the power to wage a war more effective than ever before. They want a new treaty with the Ministry."

Tom shrugged. "Seeing as you are the resident goblin charmer, you take care of them."

On one hand, Harry was ecstatic to hear that – it meant that Tom had finally realised that he could and should delegate the responsibilities. On the other, seeing Tom so far gone that even an alliance with goblins, which had previously excited him enough that he kissed Harry in public, couldn't move him, made Harry want to hurt someone very badly. Also, his eyes stung, but he wasn't going to fall apart and cry just yet.

"Sure," he said mockingly. "If I fuck up, you'll know by the axe embedded in my skull."

Tom blinked at him. "I'll know by dropping dead."

The – rather unfunny, in Harry's angry opinion – allusion to the bond made Harry wonder if he would start fainting, or otherwise experiencing some effects of Tom's deterioration. Also, was it possible that Tom actually functioned on life energy he had leeched from Harry?

Harry wasn't complaining about the stealing if that was the case, but he had a different idea about his future life than becoming a walking battery for a man who wanted to accomplish too much too fast.

Tom, apparently, was also thinking about their bond, if from a completely different perspective, because he said next: "Now I almost regret being so shortsighted with our marriage ceremony."

"A problem?" Harry inquired, with much less bite than he wanted to add. He swallowed the bile and waited to hear whether Tom regretted them yet.

"We have kept my muggle father's surname, instead of taking one of the respectable pureblooded names we could have chosen," Tom explained. Finally, he pushed himself upright in the chair and raised his hand to touch Harry's thigh.

Harry covered Tom's hand with his own, unsurprised but all the more worried when he found it to be ice-cold. "We went for anonymity. It's served its purpose."

"Nonetheless, presently it would be much more advantageous for us if we could use the political clout of even a tainted pureblooded heritage."

"You would want to be a 'Potter'?" Harry asked doubtfully. Neither of them had any positive experience with Potters, and the name had a taste of bitterness to it – at least it did for Harry. Maybe it was a legacy of the way the wizarding world had treated him and of the never-ending pressure to conform to a role set for him, but he didn't miss being a Potter.

Tom appeared to have no such qualms. "It is certainly preferable to 'Riddle.' However, Potters were a minor family at best. They did have their allies, often influential ones, but nothing comparable to the power held within the Black line. You are the heir. We could legally use the Black name and all Blacks' connexions-"

"Yes, because Bellatrix killed Sirius," Harry said mock-flippantly.

Tom gave him a look that was probably supposed to mock Harry in return, but which fell flat. Tom might have worn glamours as his work-clothes these days, abut Harry saw straight through his to the skull-like face beneath. There were deep bruises around his eyes, and Harry couldn't feel anything but hurt, anger and fear when he was looking in that face.

"It was a perfectly logical course of action for her," Tom said, folding his hands in his lap. "She believed she would inherit the collective Black assets – which, I may assure you, are valuable enough to warrant such drastic measures."

Harry's next reply would have drawn attention away from their past conflicts and back to the matter of the presently neglected Black estate with the repeated suggestion to put Andromeda on the Wizengamot, but then the door to the office opened.

"My Lord…" A young witch stood in the doorway, holding an armful of parchments and staring at Harry. "Oh, excuse me."

"Come in," Tom commanded.

She didn't hesitate again. Tybalt Lestrange waltzed in after her, wordlessly nodding to both Harry and Tom in greeting.

Tom gestured him toward a wooden box standing on top of a chest of drawers, which Tybalt retrieved, scowling all the while.

"These are the files you requested," the witch spoke, glancing sideways at Harry before she focused fully on her work. She arranged the parchments on Harry's desk – Tom's work had spilt over there finally – and dusted off her hands. "There was a minor altercation, but the deployed team has solved it with minimal fuss. Mr Lestrange suggested a commendation for them. I took the liberty of including a list of names for you, my Lord." She handed the indicated sheet of parchment to Tom for immediate perusal.

Tom gave it a cursory look, and while he was able to skim very quickly and catch the pertinent information, Harry knew that this time he was only pretending. He paused briefly to read the bottom line. "They did an unexpectedly good job."

"Which team was it?" Harry inquired.

"The experimental mixed group," Tybalt replied instead of the woman. "A Light wizard, Light witch, Dark wizard, Dark witch configuration."

Tom offered Harry the report.

Harry took a glance at the names: Meadows, Deerhart, Wilkins, Japes. He expected that the latter was Dexia, and Meadows might have been Phillip, Nomiki's nephew, and it surprised him to realise that he had known nothing about any teams going out on any missions. It angered him twice over – once for being kept in the dark by Tom, who should have known better than to repeat Dumbledore's mistake, the second time for witnessing yet another endeavour that was sapping Tom's energy.

He glared at Tom, who must have felt the surge of ire over the bond, but pretended that nothing was amiss.

Harry couldn't deal with this right now. He had to get away and calm down, and then he had to get really proactive in this little personal war he had going on with his husband before it leaked out and infected the Order. They were a hair's breadth from destroying everything they had accomplished.

"I want to talk to Lestrange," he said to the witch, whoever the Hell she might have been, because no one had cared to introduce her. "Tomorrow, ten o'clock, the Open Study." He strode to the door, where he paused for a moment. He felt Tom's eyes on him, and the bond tingled with a silent plea, as if Tom was mutely asking for Harry to be more understanding, more supportive.

Well, Harry understood just fine. And he was being as supportive as anyone could.

Tom had once requested that Harry stop him, should he do something stupid. In the spirit of fulfilling his promise, Harry stalked out of the office without a backwards glance. He had to plot. And then he had to wait for Lestrange – whichever Lestrange it was the woman had referenced – and learn everything about this newest of Tom's secrets.

x

Harry spent an hour on the part of Nott grounds warded off for training. He watched, instructed, and then trounced several opponents, including Geoff Wilkins from Tom's unexpectedly successful team.

He then insisted on the man accompanying him to dinner, and interrogated him about his position and duties under the guise of gathering feedback. He was fairly sure that Wilkins left for home in the early evening under the impression that Harry had been deeply involved with the creation of the Taboo-response teams from the very beginning.

From what Harry could piece together it had happened somewhat like this: Moody had during one of his rather frequent visits mentioned an old proposal of his, which the Ministry had denied so many times that he had eventually stopped trying. Tybalt Lestrange had immediately become interested, and passed it on to Antonin, who had brought it to Tom. Tom had approved it straightaway and designated Tybalt and Moody to handle the logistics and come to him with a detailed plan for implementation.

The idea was outrageously obvious. Moody proposed to put Taboo on the incantations of all major illegal enchantments, starting with the moderately harmful spells in every Dark wizard's primer and ending with the Unforgivables. When a Taboo was broken, the team on duty would be sent to investigate the area and 'deal' with the situation.

From what Harry had gathered, the implementation went swiftly and without any major issues, and so far the project was _stupidly_ successful.

Harry could just imagine how much power the casting of the Taboos had required, and how much of it had been supplied by Tom.

He was trying to decide how angry he was at Tom for doing all this behind his back, and with trying to understand _why_ in Merlin's name he had been kept out of it, when the door to the Green Suite opened and Tom walked in. He seemed momentarily surprised at Harry's presence, but shook it off quickly and headed straight for the bathroom.

Harry remembered times when silence between them had been comfortable.

Tom came back a while later, dressed in a long nightshirt that was vainly trying to hide how thin he was underneath it. He sat on the side of the bed and gave Harry a quizzical look.

Harry rose from the chair, walked over to stand in front of Tom, and handed him the scroll he had spent his day getting. "Here."

"What is it?" Tom asked, taking it and staring at the seal for a moment.

"Our treaty with goblins," Harry replied, watching Tom's expression closely, hoping to at least see him smile. It had been a while since Tom had smiled.

Tom frowned. He suspiciously regarded the scroll once again, and then turned the suspicion at Harry. "You negotiated a treaty in a single day…?"

"Is that a bad thing?" Harry counter-questioned.

"Bad?" Tom repeated. He shook his head in denial. "It's _impossible_."

Harry shrugged helplessly. Obviously, Tom wasn't going to be happy. "Sorry?"

"No. Don't even." Tom raised his hands in exasperation. He passed the treaty back to Harry, who took it for fear that Tom would leak enough resentment to freeze it and then break it into tiny shards. "I swear you are not a human. A force of nature, more like. One of these days, you will give me a heart attack."

"Don't say that," Harry pleaded. He had to turn away. The scroll suddenly seemed to weigh impossibly much, and he had to set it down. He found a place for it on a shelf between some obscure books about blood magic.

"I can't…" Tom paused to formulate his thoughts and then started again: "I can't schedule with you around. You are impossible to calculate. You break through all laws of logic just by being yourself, and I can only watch all my plans falling apart."

"I'm sorry?" Harry repeated. He wasn't bloody sorry that he got along well with goblins, or that he had practically eradicated dementors. He regretted that he had failed Tom in allowing him to get sick, and that he couldn't seem to find a way to help him, that he aggravated him with his unpredictability and that he, apparently, just wasn't good enough.

"It's not your fault," Tom informed him benignly. "Or, rather, it is nothing you are doing consciously. I expect that the first time you did something impossible was long before you tripped fifty years into your past. You made me love you. I should have known there was something wrong with you then."

Harry could have sworn his heart skipped a few beats.

Tom seemed to consider the matter concluded; he climbed into the bed, lay down on his side facing the opposite wall, with his back to Harry, and pulled the covers up to his chin.

Harry fled. He walked aimlessly through the darkening halls of the Nott Manor, hoping that he would not meet anyone. The word Tom had used echoed through his head. 'Wrong?' Was there really something _wrong_ with Harry? Why? Because he was more powerful that the average wizard? Because people liked him despite his position and power?

"That hurt," Harry admitted to himself. His voice broke half-way through.

"My Lord-"

"No!" Harry barked, not caring who it was that had addressed him. "No. Just… leave me alone. For a while."

He hurried away. He couldn't talk to anyone. Not now. Maybe… Maybe if Antonin had been here… But Antonin was off somewhere on the continent, and Harry wasn't so much of an angsting teenager that he would bother going all that way just so he could pour his heart out to someone he trusted.

He would get through this. He just had to breathe despite the pain for a while, and after the worst would pass, he was going to make plans. He had told Antonin that he could be cruel, and now was the highest time to start.

x

The grounds were too quiet after sundown. Harry wished for some melancholy music to listen to, but he had never learnt to play anything – no way the Dursleys would have paid for lessons – and he didn't have a walkman, never mind finding one that would work around magic. He and Tom used to have a gramophone at their house – a huge, bulky thing. Harry missed the house, but right at this moment he missed the gramophone much more, and that was just absurd.

They were less than five years from the third millennium. Gramophones belonged into museums.

Merlin, he wanted that thing back.

He had wandered all over the place, across the gardens overgrown with weed, around the training zone, through an orchard, and returned back to the Manor itself. He noted the darkened window of the Green Suite, and a few seconds later practically stumbled over the fountain he had noticed before from the Manor's terrace.

Much to his surprise, it was not a ruin anymore. The entire place had been cleaned up. Light grey tiling had appeared from underneath the aggressive growth and lanterns were raised on posts in the apices of a heptagon. Their light was weak, too weak to read in, but it sufficed for orientation. The fountain's basin was filled with clear water, fed by a steady flow from the tip of the pipe in the faun statue's hands.

Impressed, Harry sat down on the side of the basin.

Now that he wasn't moving, he noticed how cold it was getting. Yule was approaching. It seemed impossible how fast things were happening – no wonder they were paying the price in blood and bone marrow. The New Order had become so deeply entrenched in most of the spheres of the wizarding society, and they would continue growing through it like a mistletoe plant through the branches of a tree. In the end, their original hostile takeover would not seem so hostile. The public had an extremely short memory.

Harry had been so busy managing media, the daily life at Headquarters and re-forming the Light side of the Order, that he had completely missed the formation of their semi-vigilante – but, apparently, Ministry-sanctioned – violence-response crew-

"My Lord?" a quiet voice inquired.

Harry looked over his shoulders and found Theodore the Third standing in the shadow of a lantern-post.

"May I approach?" he inquired. He must have been warned about Harry's mood.

"Yes," Harry answered. He beckoned the boy to take a seat next to him cool stone. "Were you sent over as a virgin sacrifice?"

Theodore offered a slight, polite smile. "I was," he admitted. "But I would have volunteered either way."

For a while they sat there quietly.

Eventually Theodore decided that he had given enough deference to Harry's stated wish for solitude and spoke again: "Mr Dolohov mentioned that you have shown an interest in this stage. I had the house elves clean and repair it. Is it to your liking?"

Harry let his head fall back and stared at the stars, easily visible despite the light from the lanterns. "It's beautiful. Tranquil." For an instance, he loved being a Dark Lord. Even that instance was enough to fill him with determination and put a stop to the useless woolgathering.

"The guests of the Manor have been informed that it is to be available to you at any time."

"Thank you, Theodore," Harry said, and meant it from the bottom of his heart. This place was his for the time being. It was something gorgeous, given to him by people who respected him and cared for him, in the hopes of making him happy. He smiled.

The boy stood, bowed, and straightened again. "I hate taking you away from here, my Lord, but there are several members of the Inner Circle gathered in the Victorian Salon. We were hoping for your presence for some tea and dessert – a guilty pleasure a little too late in the evening?"

Harry didn't want to have to solve any problems at this time. Theodore was a good Slytherin, and his promise of relaxing time was no guarantee that the ex-Death Eaters didn't need Harry for some executive work, but Harry knew that he had to go. After all, he had to deserve the benefits he received for being a Dark Lord.

He walked alongside Theodore, contemplating anything and everything except Tom. He had thought more than enough about Tom today.

"Do you play an instrument?" he asked to avoid more thinking.

Theodore seemed briefly startled, but he quickly composed himself and answered: "No, my Lord. However, I know that Miss Japes used to play harpsichord quite skillfully, and I have heard that Miss Avery plays piano."

Harry was fairly certain that he didn't know 'Miss Avery.' He spent the rest of the trek mentally going over Aurelius' family, and came up with a blank.

The Victorian Salon was quite full. The scents of various teas were mixing in the air, and men and women sat around in armchairs and on chaises. True to Theodore's word, the atmosphere was relaxed, up until Harry's entrance.

The younger wizards and witches jumped to their feet and bowed (Wilkins hadn't left for home, after all); the elder remained sitting, inclining their heads and uttering quiet salutations. Harry noted Antonin's conspicuous absence, and summarily gestured them all to dispense with the drama. He took a seat on one of the empty chaises, saving enough space for Theodore, should he like sitting next to Harry.

Theodore accepted the unspoken invitation and made himself comfortable just as a house elf appeared.

"Earl Grey for me, Inky," the boy said.

The creature turned its big brown eyes to Harry.

"Chamomile. And some biscuits, please."

"Yes, Masters. Right away, Masters," Inky promised, and vanished.

Harry took a look around himself, and noticed the presence of the witch he had met earlier that day in Tom's office. He found it interesting that there was a member of the Inner Circle with whom he wasn't acquainted, but he had used up all his anger and resentment for the day and simply accepted her presence without drawing attention to the fact that he didn't even know her name.

Guessing from Theodore's earlier remark, she might have been the mysterious 'Miss Avery.'

Two tea trays appeared on the table in front of Harry and Theodore respectively.

"We do have a piano, my Lord," Theodore mentioned faux-casually. "And I'm sure Manon wouldn't mind-"

"Another day, perhaps," Harry replied. The unknown young witch had reacted to the name 'Manon' as if she was being addressed. Harry mentally catalogued her as Aurelius Avery's so-far unmentioned relative.

"Backgammon, my Lord?" Rodolphus Lestrange inquired, lifting an inlaid wooden box.

"Not tonight. Maybe some other time. Don't mind my presence."

Rodolphus nodded, although he seemed disappointed. He did, however, look much better than he had after Bellatrix' death. Most likely he was keeping busy; Tom had recently given him a position with a lot of power and a lot of responsibility.

"You do know Phillip Meadows, Geoff Wilkins and Priscilla Deerhart?" Rodolphus indicated a trio seated around Dexia Japes.

They were the young people who had stood when Harry had entered, and they bowed now, too, when they noticed Harry was watching them.

"The experimental team?" Harry inquired.

"Yes," Rodolphus confirmed.

"Very nice," Harry said with an edge of danger that Rodolphus as a seasoned Death Eater recognised. "I was pleased to _hear_ of the project. Its success compounded the pleasure."

Rodolphus shivered, but he remained standing tall, just like he had remained defiant after he had euthanised his wife. "Thank you, my Lord. Your satisfaction is our best reward."

Harry pursed his lips, discontent with the sycophantic rhetoric. He was being ungracious in taking his anger out on someone who wasn't at fault, and Rodolphus had, whether intentionally or not, reminded him of that.

"What else do you want to inform me of?" Harry directed the question to the whole room.

The wizards and witches exchanged glances and various gestures every which way. Harry hoped to Merlin that they would all prove to be trustworthy, because the last thing he needed was rumours about a schism in the Order.

"Manon Avery, sir," the woman from Tom's office spoke, tentatively raising her hand. "His Lordship required a personal assistant to help lessen the load of Ministry-issued paperwork. I was recommended by my Great Uncle-"

"Aurelius?" Harry more stated than asked, and nodded in acceptance. "Thank you, Miss Avery. Next?"

Several of them admitted to some issues, but everything else was minor in comparison. Theodore the Second mentioned, rather unhappily, that the Manor was temporarily doubling as the base for Moody's and Tybalt Lestrange's project, and the 'experimental team' – which truly had to get a better name fast – was in fact on duty.

Eventually, Harry gathered his resolve. He stood and turned so that he could address everyone at the same time. "So far the New Order is doing well – extremely well, even. However, this success comes at the price of our leader's health. I will require the assistance of _every one_ of you in helping the Dark Lord recover. That may mean more duties and more responsibility for many of you. I will attempt to deputise for my husband, but in this I will often rely on your experience. Can I count on you?"

He was the recipient of several wide-eyed looks, which showed him just how well Tom had disguised his condition from his followers. Those in the know, so to speak, muttered their agreement.

"Were we too optimistic?" Vulcan Mulciber inquired. "We thought that everything would be solved now that you have returned, my Lord!"

"What foolishness!" Harry muttered, crossing his arms. As if he was some sort of fairy godfather who would wave his wand and 'magically' make everything better.

"I apologise, my Lord," Mulciber hastened to speak, bowing his head in deference. "I realise that your mere presence has bettered our situation so that there is no comparison to what it was like before, and I apologise for feeling as if the New Order were failing simply because our victory is not instantaneous and complete."

Harry suppressed a snort. He was acting in his role as the second Dark Lord, and that left no room for juvenility. "I am glad you understand that my Lord husband and I are still only two wizards."

"What is the problem, my Lord?" Thorfinn Rowle asked from Mulciber's side. "Why does it not feel like we are succeeding at all?" The man had known Tom for decades, and was able to see through his airs better than almost anyone, probably except Antonin and Harry himself.

"Too much to do, no time to do it," Harry explained. It was, he strongly suspected, merely an illusion perpetuated by the Ministry, which was, out of self-defence, trying to make the Order burn out chasing its own tail. "You have seen how Tom pushes himself past all rational limits, and it still is not enough."

"Could he not delegate more duties to us?" Rabastan suggested.

"We do have our own duties, but certainly most of us have enough free time to dedicate some to the cause," Dexia agreed.

Harry nodded in acknowledgement, but he had to disappoint them. "I have been trying to convince him, but he does not want to share the load."

"My Lord, have you considered acquiring a time-turner?" Nomiki Meadows had up until this moment remained unnoticed. She did not usually spend time at the Nott Manor; Harry guessed that she had been invited specifically for this brainstorming session.

The Inner Circle had really born up and supported Harry – and Tom – this time.

"No, actually…" Harry admitted. However, he remembered Hermione in their third year. Specifically, he remembered how exhausted she had been all the time. He shook his head. "But that would not help. It would just exacerbate the problem."

"How, my Lord? Using a time-turner to sleep-"

"But he would not use it to sleep, Mr Lestrange. He would use it to work more, to drive himself into utter exhaustion, and to pretend to me that he was getting better."

In fact, now that Harry had been given the idea, he had to wonder if Tom didn't already have a time-turner. He was a genius – surely he would have thought of them himself. Also, the New Order had agents in the Department of Mysteries, so having one delivered from there would hardly be a problem. A lot of them might have been destroyed during the battle in the end of Harry's fifth year at Hogwarts, but he didn't believe for a second that there were none left.

He must have been thinking for too long, because when he returned to the present, whispered conversations had begun in various corners of the room. Meadows was trying to convince Rowle under her breath that 'the Dark Lord required professional help.'

"You can't send the Dark Lord to a shrink!" Deerhart protested too loudly from behind Meadows. "Aside from the fact that he would simply not go and the fact that there are no shrinks in the wizarding Britain, he's got secrets that cannot be disclosed to a third party, regardless of any confidentiality vows or curses."

Harry let them talk it over among themselves. He crossed the room to the doorway and, noticed by few, spent a couple of minutes installing a ward that would ensure that they would all keep the discussed subject matter confidential.

Afterwards he clapped to regain everyone's attention.

"We will speak again in the morning," he informed his audience. "Rodolphus, ten o'clock in the Open Study."

"Yes, my Lord," the man agreed, unsurprised, so he had already been informed.

"Gather all the project leaders you know of. Miss Avery, does the Dark Lord have any meetings tomorrow?"

The woman shook her head. "He tries to avoid that, lately, and prefers to correspond."

"Good. Inform me if anything comes up. All of you, try to get some rest. I will see you tomorrow."

He left to the chorus of empty wishes of a good night.

His first order of business was to gain the cooperation of the elves. Harry dropped by the kitchen and requested Chatter's attendance. He was, technically, ordering the elf to betray one of her secondary Masters, and Chatter was one of the few who had the abstract thinking capable of understanding Harry's purpose.

She agreed to drug Tom's coffee for him. In fact, she shed a few tears in sympathy for Tom and Harry. If there was anything Harry envied anyone, it was Chatter.

Harry then visited Knockturn Alley. Its night incarnation was very different from its much milder day version, and Harry had to curse a few beings to get them out of his way. In the end, however, he got to talk to Ædelric, the vampiric potioneer and chemist, who was largely uninterested in Harry or Tom or the New Order, but perfectly willing to do business.

From there Harry went back to the Nott Manor, had a shower, spent a few hours going through his and Tom's correspondence, and created the outline of a position of a public relations person that would work in tandem with Manon Avery. It was a fruitful night.

Shortly before dawn he went to the Green Suite to pretend to check on Tom. He thought that maybe he should have felt guilty about what he was doing, about drugging and kidnapping his husband and about sabotaging his work, but he was beyond guilt, beyond remorse and regret and concern. He was deep into the pit of outright terror that Tom would waste away to nothing right in front of him, and Harry had never dealt well with overwhelming fear.

In the past, the best he could do was ignoring it.

Now the option of ignoring it was taken from him, and sheer desperation drove him to do something drastic. Tom had asked for it.

"The thing is, love…" Harry tried to convince himself as he stepped into their sitting room, "you won't prevent me from protecting you. And I will protect you at all costs. At any cost. So, sorry, but you're shit out of luck with this suicidal gig you've got going on here."

He stepped into the bedroom just in time to see Tom drink the last of his morning coffee and reach for his first dose of Nutrient Potion today.

Tom's hand was shaking. He scowled at it, as if attempting to will it to remain steady, but then he seemed to lose balance completely. Harry managed to get to him and catch him before his knees gave out.

Tom's eyes were wide and glazed. Harry picked him up. It was nauseating just how light he was, and Harry took special care laying him down onto the bed and tucking him in. The man was so malnourished, and addicted to so many potions already, that it was horribly likely that his heart would just give out. Harry knew Chatter would be monitoring Tom every second of the day, but he resolved to call Apollonia Greengrass, bind her with a couple of oaths and get her professional opinion on what Tom needed.

Harry had a great respect for a Dark Lord's pride and privacy, but for him his husband's health would always take precedence.

He briefly touched his forehead to Tom's and whispered: "I'm sorry, darling. I am not just the body you fuck… or the idea you love." He took a deep breath, straightened, and looked down at the sleeping face of the Dark Lord. "I am your wand… and your sword… and your shield."


	14. Privileges

Thank you for the supportive response! Even though I suck at replying individually, I read and appreciate every single review. To celebrate reaching the 500 responses count for Visionary, please accept this belated yet plot-relevant interlude while I work on the next chapter.

To _abaude_ and _biblioholic_: I'm glad you noticed the touches. Ancient Greece and Rome have been an interest of mine since I was… six, I believe. I've never studied it, but it tends to crop up now and then in my writing. Cheers.

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Interlude: Privileges

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Never in his life had Albus suffered boredom. Boredom was something that did not happen to him. Idleness? Perhaps, occasionally. It could be enjoyable, for limited periods of time. Not too often.

But boredom?

He let his eyes slide over the entirely too familiar barred arch, and the vacant corridor behind it. Once in a while muffled speech filtered in from a lower floor or another wing, but in the stretches of time in between the only human-produced sound detectable to ears was Gellert's breathing.

Even that was a cause for alarm, because Albus was entirely too aware that his ears were not nearly so sharp as to hear a man breathe over such distance. As much as he would have liked to ignore the obvious conclusion, he could not lie to himself.

Gellert had a chest infection. Considering the level of care he enjoyed and the genuine joviality that the guards expressed toward him, its lack of treatment meant that there was nothing to be done.

Albus was disconcerted by how many conflicted emotions that realisation sparked in him.

He watched with a frown as Gellert walked into sight, holding an oil lamp in one hand and a book in the other. He wore his glasses. The corners of Albus' mouth still, weeks after he had first seen a bespectacled Gellert Grindelwald, twitched.

"I would have thought that you would be _wahnsinnig_ with the ennui by now, Albus," Gellert said, setting the lamp onto a table he had had one of the guards move there earlier that day. He took a seat in the armchair next to the table, crossed his legs, and settled the book on his thigh. "And instead you are smiling. Or-" Gellert quirked a brow, "-are you smiling _because_ you have taken a leave of your senses?"

"That is the topic of many a discussion," Albus replied drolly. "I'm afraid it would detract from the air of mystery if I ever gave a definite answer to that question."

Gellert laughed. "You and your love of mystery… Had you been born a muggle, you would have become a superb magician, I wager. Not that you are not a superb magician as it is."

Albus had to laugh with him. He had not let himself think about Gellert's sense of humour in decades. In fact, he had done his best to forget the good parts of his and Gellert's association, because they were overshadowed by the war, and Albus had grieved for too many losses without torturing himself with memories of happiness lost.

"Thank you," he said. "You were quite astonishing, yourself. Pity that you chose to turn to the Dark."

A moment later Albus regretted the loss of levity. Even if he was still angry and disappointed about the illustrious end of his long and adventurous tenure as the Headmaster of Hogwarts and a member of the International Confederation of Wizards, that was hardly an excuse to act ungraciously toward a man who came to him to lift his spirits.

"I have been Dark before I ever met you, Albus. You chose to not see me for what I was," Gellert said, biting softly on the knuckle of his thumb. Then he smiled again. "Although, I have to admit that I have never been a very good Dark Lord. I was an intellectual rather than a warrior – how else could I have learnt to be content locked away in a library?"

Albus, who had been informed by the guards to be glad for the mattress on his bed and the upholstery on his chair, eyed Gellert's armchair, lamp and book with suspicion and more than a little envy. "How is it that you live in a library rather than in a cell?"

Gellert stroked the spine of his book. The flame from the lamp reflected individually in each lens of his spectacles. He mused for a minute, and eventually replied: "I have been on my best behaviour, and they have allowed me a new comfort every once in a while since I stopped wishing to get out."

"You do not wish to leave?" Albus asked, startled. It was difficult to imagine that the vivacious, predatory wizard whom he had once known – and fought – would have given up on freedom. Had Nurmengard broken him so completely?

Was it, essentially, Albus' fault?

Albus comforted himself with the knowledge that Gellert Grindelwald had been out to massacre a part of the population, and despite long and arduous effort had not allowed himself to be persuaded to give up on genocide.

"Not at all. I have nothing out there. My time is over, my vision for the world unfeasible… I have no desire to subject myself to freedom." He gave Albus an infuriatingly superior look. "You disagree?"

Albus, somewhat disgruntled, drummed the fingers of his left hand against his right upper arm. Perhaps Gellert had been incarcerated for so long that he could not even imagine a different life anymore, but Albus was not willing to idly sit in this place and let Tom and Harry wreak havoc on everything he had tried so hard to protect. He could not allow wizarding Britain to suffer through the horrors of segregation based on blood purity or, worse, the reinstating of the institute of slavery. What of the children he had taught?

He would not have been able to live with the knowledge that he had doomed the next generation through his failure to neutralise Tom and Harry while they had still been vulnerable. The children needed him.

"I have my school-"

"Not yours anymore," Gellert cut in, without even looking up, and turned over the page in his book.

"-and my Order-"

"It was taken from you," Geller informed him.

"-and a war to fight. Voldemort must be stopped!" Albus released an angry sigh, particularly annoyed at Gellert's undisguised, theatrical pose of paternal patience directed at a petulant child.

"He has been stopped quite effectively, from what I have seen." Gellert laced his hands on top of the text he was pretending to read, and looked up. There was a slight smile on his face, barely distinguishable in the flickering light of the oil lamp. "Face it, Albus – the war as you have pictured it, your story-book story, is over. Those two boys learnt from our example, but they took the reversed approach. They hated each other for years, before they fell in love and decided to remodel the society together. And, by gods, I wish it works out for them."

"You don't know Tom, Gellert. He is…" Albus paused to seek a descriptive enough word.

"Insane?" the erstwhile Dark Lord suggested, smirking. "A sociopath? Hardly. He used to be, perhaps. I have had decades of nothing to do but collect newspaper, Albus. I know of your Lord Voldemort and your Boy Who Lived. I find it incredibly improbable that the two would end up bonded, and yet that is what happened. I ask: how?"

Albus scowled.

He did not have to say anything, naturally, but Gellert's bearing, the manner in which he leant forwards and seemed to hardly breathe as he hung onto Albus' lips, always made Albus want to show off his knowledge. It was a weakness that he had recognised already at the end of last century, but which he had yet to counter.

"In 1943," he spoke, aware of having lost some unacknowledged challenge, "one Harry James Potter appeared on the list of the sixth year students, quite out of nowhere." It had been a long time ago for Albus, but the memories had been freshened, since he had recently reviewed many of them in his pensieve. "The contemporary Potters could not find a link to him in their family tree; thus he was assumed to be illegitimate. He claimed to have been home-schooled prior to his admission to Hogwarts and Armando never contested that claim – in fact, he did not contact Mr Potter's guardians, as far as I am aware. I do not know whether the tuition fees for him were paid-"

"Basically," Gellert spoke up, with an unholy grin stretching his face, "you're saying that your pet hero traveled fifty-three years into the past and fell in love with his future nemesis? Oh… priceless!"

"Gellert?" Albus exclaimed, aghast at the incredible effrontery his once-companion demonstrated by finding amusement in such a twisted, tragic tale.

Gellert softly coughed into the back of his hand, squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed his temple. "Albus, there is nothing to do in here but read. Do not be such a grouch. Learn to find entertainment where you can." The smirk returned to his face, muted and tinged with bitterness.

That, Albus mused, was the reason why there always had been and always would be contention between himself and Gellert. Albus was aware that some reviled him for what they considered his propensity for caring for the needs of many above the needs of few. Albus reviled Gellert for his insistence to put the wants of few above the needs of many.

They had been intellectual equals, once upon a time, except for one difference between them: where Gellert had always understood Albus, Albus had never wholly understood Gellert.

Perhaps that was why he had craved his favour. It was so rare that he found anything enigmatic about a human being.

"Would you lend me that book?" he asked, as interested about the subject that kept Gellert occupied as he was curious whether Geller _would_ lend it.

"Do you wish for freedom?" the man asked faux-casually.

"Of course I do," Albus replied. He had made that clear enough, he believed.

Gellert shook his head, smiling again. "Then I cannot help you, Albus. I will not endanger my own privileges because you refuse to admit defeat. If you wish it, however, I would not be disinclined to read aloud."


	15. Promises

A/N: It's alive. It's _aliiive_!

Please, allow me to apologise to everyone to whom I haven't replied individually. I offer my unending appreciation for the seconds/minutes of your life you have spent on composing and sending the response to the last chapter and the interlude.

This was supposed to be a Halloween gift :-((. One of the reasons why it took me so long to finish this chapter is that, originally, there was supposed to be one, about fifteen pages long chapter. Then it became two chapters. Then it became damn-near three chapters, but I decided that, since Tom's just lying there and not doing anything (except worrying Harry), it would be unfair of me. So, this is done, and the next part is coming up. Soon. Pinky promise.

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Chapter Thirteen: Promises

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"I can't believe it," Harry said, staring at the report in his hands. It contained information that would probably turn up in tomorrow's issue of Daily Prophet, but he was glad to for once have a head start on the rest of the wizarding world.

"Is something wrong, my Lord?" Tybalt Lestrange asked from Harry's desk. He didn't even bother to conceal his concern.

Harry shook his head. "Scrimgeour packed up his whole family and skipped country."

"Will this cause problems?" the man inquired, anxious but at the same time preoccupied with finishing the letter he was writing. There were dark bruises under his eyes, and deep frown-lines crossed his forehead as he tried to decipher the miniscule text in the law-book he had on hand.

Merlin only knew when he had last had a full night's sleep.

"On the contrary," Harry assured him, trying to sound optimistic, "this will throw the Ministry into a few days of chaos and distract them from this paperwork war they've been waging on us." Would that he were right, and that the New Order were granted a much-needed break. Harry shook his head, trying to dislodge the cobwebs. "That is what amazes me so much. I can't believe Scrimgeour's done something helpful."

"Wherefore would he do something like that, though?" Rabastan Lestrange inquired, glancing up from the stack of out-going messages he was sorting through.

Harry for a moment wondered if he should comment on the man's apparent comfort with being seated in Tom's chair, but in the end decided that there was enough upset and tensions running high already, and he would achieve nothing but further contention.

"Let the Ministry deal with it," Tybalt advised his son. "That's why we pay taxes."

"Who's the Senior Undersecretary?" Harry inquired. He hadn't been very conscientious about keeping abreast of all the personnel changes happening in that pit of money and politics. He had had his projects, and Tom had in not so many words asked him to butt out of diplomacy unless goblins were involved.

"Pius Thicknesse, I'm afraid," Tybalt informed him, spelling the ink on his missive dry with an offhanded motion of his wand. "There had been some small effort to recruit him prior to your return, my Lord, but he had dithered until it was too late and his Lordship ceased being interested. However…"

"However?" Harry prodded, and mentally thanked Tom for having taken the chance to kill Umbridge in the mayhem after Harry's semi-botched attack on Azkaban. If Harry came upon the pink toad in his current state, she would still end up dead, but Harry would have to field an endless barrage of consequences.

Tybalt laced his fingers together and, with pursed lips to indicate his distaste, replied: "Now he would like to be taken into his Lordship's confidence."

"An opportunist of the worst, most obvious and arrogant kind," Harry guessed, accepting the lack of objection as an implied confirmation. "I hate people like that." He suspected that one of the reasons for his dislike was that he felt like they were making a mockery of Tom. They tried to act like they were on a higher level than most wizards, tried to demand deference, often from people much more skilled or smarter than themselves. That kind of behaviour was only excusable if they had the power and shrewdness to back it up. Thicknesse didn't.

Tom usually did, and in him Harry found it to be very attractive.

And once again he was thinking about Tom and working himself up into a state, hyperaware of the unnatural tranquility on Tom's side of their bond.

"Alright," Harry mused, rubbing his eyes to get rid of the burning. "Have Lucius tenderise him a bit for the moment. He'll be good and ready by the time I'll be able to deal with him. I've seen Thicknesse before; he's not smart enough to be a real concern. Carrot and stick should work on him, and Lucius does his bad-guy good-guy schizophrenia act very well." Lucius was like a rose – pretty, perfumed-up, and under those soft petals of his thorny enough to bloody whoever tried to touch him. Harry didn't like him, but the man was _capable_ and fairly controllable through his ambitions. Plus there was his wife, who, as far as Harry could tell, was one of the true believers of the Vision.

"I'll inform him, my Lord," Rabastan assured him, deducing rightly that Harry wouldn't have the time and patience required for hands-on handling. He gathered the day's worth of mail, not showing the slightest hint of protest or dissatisfaction at basically doing a house elf's job.

"Thanks," Harry told him sincerely. It was perhaps below his station as the Dark Lord, but he did have too many things to deal with anyway, without applying needless censure in everyday talks with his Inner Circle. "I'll have Miss Avery do the secretarial work for today. Tybalt, can you get me Lady Greengrass before quarter past?"

"If she's available, she'll be here. I can't promise I will-"

"Reach her, I get it," Harry assured him. Tom wasn't in a critical condition, so there was no point in creating too much drama around it – yet. "Do we have other healers?"

The remorseful head shakes did not surprise him.

Harry knew for a fact that they did have supporters of the Light affiliation who did have medical training, but he wouldn't have trusted either of them to do their best to help the former Dark Lord Voldemort get healthy. Tom's identity, and the mystery they had (intentionally) created around the truth of the psychopathic mass-murdering Dark Lord of years past presented a rather huge chink in the political armour of the New Order – but it couldn't exactly be helped.

Harry would wager that the majority of the public didn't yet entirely believe that Voldemort was truly gone. It had been easier for them to believe in the tale of a miracle baby bouncing off a Killing Curse than into a much less fantastical story of a hostile takeover of the Dark Order by Harry Potter and his fishy alleged husband, especially when Albus Dumbledore, the shining beacon of the Light had been incarcerated for a slew of crimes committed on children at roughly the same time. People were confused, and rightly so. And, while there were very few who could reliably connect Tom Riddle to Voldemort, there was practically no one who didn't wonder about from under which rock the New Order leadership had sprung.

Harry folded the Prophet and let it fall straight into the rubbish bin.

"I'm for Owlery, my Lord," Rabastan announced, as if Harry hadn't noticed that by himself.

"Go on," Harry excused him. "And, from now on, I'm issuing mandatory breaks. If you work for sixteen hours, you have to take off at least eight hours to rest. And by rest I don't mean reading through reports or catching up on the news!"

Father and son shared a look that Harry couldn't quite interpret, before they both nodded.

Rabastan took Tybalt's recently finished letter and left.

Tybalt rested his chin on his palm and narrowed his eyes at Harry. "I will officially announce your new policy to all inhabitants of the Manor, my Lord. However, may I inquire if it applies to yourself as well?"

Harry sighed. The man did have a good point, and Harry wasn't so full of himself that he would ignore the advice of someone who had half a century of experience with management. "In my case it will be put into effect within two weeks."

He was sure he would survive two weeks of constant pressures only a little worse for wear, and right now he didn't want to make promises he couldn't keep. Hopefully, in a fortnight the worst would be behind them, and the New Order wouldn't require such an insane schedule from its presently only leader.

"As you say, my Lord," Tybalt allowed, and returned to the stack of diplomatic correspondence cluttering what once used to be Harry's desk.

Harry left for the Open Study. It was only nine forty, but Rodolphus was waiting for him, using the time to go through a thick, unmarked folder.

"Don't!" Harry admonished when the man was about to stand in respect.

"My Lord," Rodolphus spoke quietly.

Harry sat down into an upholstered armchair, leant back, closed his eyes for a moment and then rubbed at them again. "How long has this project been active, again?"

"Nineteen days. Today is the nineteenth."

"It took me almost three weeks to catch on," Harry grumbled. "Fine. Now that I know, summarise for me what you need and what are the main problems."

Rodolphus grimaced. He handed over the folder. "Nott has been making sounds about the project turning his home into a military base."

Harry sighed. The Nott Manor _had been_ a military Headquarters on and off since nineteen forty-five. Theodore the Second would have grown up in the atmosphere. He should have expected it. At the same time, however, it was understandable that he would be unhappy and yet not willing to raise the issue with a Dark Lord – or even the Light Dark Lord. Light Lord. Whatever Harry was called right now.

"You are seeking alternative accommodations, then?" Harry inquired.

Lestrange gestured toward the folder. "There are various options. I wanted to consult the location with you, my Lord, because you and my Lord are the only ones with an idea of the future strategic positioning of the cornerstones of the New Order – which, I dare assume, includes the Taboo-response teams."

Harry bit his tongue to silence a curse. Tom hadn't been discussing strategy with him for some time. The decision would be solely up to him then – if Tom would later realise that he had a problem with it, it would be _his_ problem.

He leafed through the folder, examining the locations and pictures of various potential bases. They were obviously extracted from a database of some kind, and since Harry knew that Gringotts doubled as the only realtor of the wizarding Britain, and that these were not goblin files, he had to ask: "Where did you get these?"

"Alastor gave them to me," Rodolphus admitted. "He wrangled them from a former protégé of his – Shacklebolt."

"Kingsley Shacklebolt?" Harry asked, trying to recall the man. He used to be a member of the Order of the Phoenix. An Auror.

"Yes, my Lord," Rodolphus confirmed. "Shacklebolt is also our primary contact within the Auror corps. It is he who has, by proxy, granted us the authority to take criminals into custody. He has personally promised his support for this project, and is trying to push it through his boss."

"I don't like this," Harry admitted. Rodolphus appeared stricken, so he quickly clarified: "It stinks of future integration attempts from the Ministry side. This is _our_ project, in _our_ purview, and it will remain under _our_ control. Shacklebolt personally has a subversive side, but the Head of the DMLE is much less likely to approve of an independent law enforcement force."

"You expect accusations of vigilantism?" Rodolphus inquired acutely.

Harry nodded. He needed Tom for this – he wasn't savvy enough to navigate the political circles with such a skill as would be needed to pull this off.

"Of course," the Lestrange answered his own question after a moment of contemplation. "Blast it! For decades the Ministry refused to even review this idea, and now that it's been proven viable they will attempt to steal it and label us criminals for implementing it first!"

Harry shrugged. He turned his head so that he was looking out of the window rather than at Rodolphus. By coincidence, the narrow view of the Nott grounds available to him included the fountain Theo had had cleaned for Harry.

His lips twitched in a semblance of a smile. "Scrimgeour has done us a greater service than anyone expected in vanishing."

"The Minister…? I apologise, my Lord, I haven't had a chance to read the news yet today."

Harry stood and returned the folder to Rodolphus. "Scrimgeour and his family left the country." No comment on whether Harry's threat to Scrimgeour's sister and her children played a role in their decision. "The Ministry will, no doubt, recuperate quickly, but this incident still does offer us a window of opportunity. Have Moody stall the official negotiations with DMLE if at all possible. As for the Headquarters, select a site that will be within sight of wizarding public – some place the people will see our teams going about their business and doing their jobs well. We want the people to be aware of our work. They must see us protecting them." Trying to think like Tom was hard. Harry wasn't even sure if what he was aiming for with his idea made sense.

Rodolphus thoughtfully nodded and didn't protest, so Harry figured he was probably onto something.

He sighed. "You know what this will do?"

"Help us create a safer country, my Lord?" Rodolphus guessed, standing and gathering his things.

"For a while, maybe," Harry allowed. "It will force wizards and witches to become more creative. They will fashion new spells, and our people will have to find out about them and put new Taboos on new incantations. It will lead to novel and likely more gruesome kinds of crime."

Rodolphus paused for a while. Then he inclined his head. "…we will not be bored any time soon, no."

Harry muffled his chuckle. "It's good that your sense of humour has not suffered any damage."

"We would go mad without some levity, my Lord," Rodolphus replied unapologetically.

"I know." With as much pessimism, depression and anxiety as was going around the Order now, they needed every bit of humour, affection and encouragement they could salvage. It was, Harry was aware, a very unusual approach to keeping up morale within a Dark-inclined political movement, and he wouldn't have thought of it if not for the way Theodore's thoughtfulness and dedication had managed to lift his spirit yesterday. That was why, before he departed, Harry told Rodolphus: "You do a good job. Continue doing a good job."

"As you command, sir," the wizard responded, standing rigidly, almost at attention, and then offering a bow.

As soon as Harry stepped into the corridor, Chatter appeared, jogging to keep pace with him. "Master Lord Harry, there is being message for you from Master Lestrange, sir. Mistress Greengrass is being here now."

Harry rapidly halted. A quick Tempus showed him that it was ten. He would have thought Apollonia would be at St Mungo's at this time – he had stated clearly that he expected her at her convenience, hadn't he?

Never mind, he decided. "Have her meet me at the Green Suite. Lead her there if she doesn't know the way," he ordered, and Apparated.

"Dock!" he barked as soon as he appeared. "Refreshments for two!"

A tray appeared on the coffee table, and Harry leaned against the sofa. Speed-eating a sandwich for brunch, he reminded himself that if he continued in this vein, he would end up in Tom's state soon enough. He was running out of time and had to prioritise like mad. Either way, he gave himself the deadline of three days. He had three days to stabilise the current status quo, and from then on he would start working _human_ hours, and be very diligent about getting enough food and sleep. Still, he didn't trust himself enough to make it a promise – hence the two weeks deadline he had mentioned to Tybalt Lestrange.

And he would solve Tom's situation. Somehow. Usually, this was the point when he pulled a miraculous solution out of his arse, but so far nothing was occurring to him.

There was a knock on the door.

Harry opened it with a wave of his hand. "Lady Greengrass," he greeted the witch that was waiting on the other side.

She looked about as harried as he felt. "My Lord," she replied.

Harry gestured her to come in. Obediently, the witch walked inside, and from the living area went directly into the bedroom without waiting to be bidden. Harry didn't have the energy to spare on observing some stupid fucking protocol, so he just let her do her thing.

She almost managed to conceal her look of horror and fear when she saw Tom's gaunt, grey face up close, and quickly started casting spells to determine all that was wrong with him. Harry, in the meantime, sat down into the nearest armchair and pulled his right knee to his chest, resting his heel on the edge of the seat.

He might have momentarily drowsed, but he was fairly sure it couldn't have been more than ten minutes before Apollonia addressed him again.

"I know he's on the verge of collapse from exhaustion, he's dehydrated and severely malnourished, and I suspect that he's been abusing some addictive substances…?" Harry summed up, making it a question.

The Healer nodded. "Correct on all accounts, my Lord. Admittedly, the malnourishment is not as bad as it could have been, since the Lord had regularly consumed Nutrient Potions, but in combination with the exhaustion he is on the verge of danger. And while I cannot officially endorse your decision to sedate the Lord…" She let the statement hang, implying that for once Harry had done the right thing in her professional opinion.

"Any other problems?" he asked.

Greengrass frowned and rubbed her forehead. Harry belatedly noticed that she was looking very pale, but he was overwrought as it was, so he forgave himself for the momentary lapse in observation.

"The Lord's immune system has been compromised by his physical condition, but he is accustomed to compensating for it with magic, and I am not truly worried about him contracting any diseases, although common sense dictates that you avoid needlessly exposing him to risks," the woman offered, carelessly throwing her thick braid over her shoulder to get it out of the way.

Harry directed a weak glare at Tom's recumbent form. The man wasn't going anywhere for the time being, so he was, hopefully, not getting himself exposed to anything that might just kill him for real.

"Alright," Harry said, even though he felt anything but. "What do I do to help him?"

Greengrass shook her head and sighed. "You are in the very precarious position of attempting to help a patient that does not wish to be helped-"

Out of _sheer fucking stubbornness_, Harry mentally added, furious with his husband.

"-and while this is technically not the most ethical procedure, I emphatically recommend intensive detoxification and physical therapy. A sufficiently skilled Healer can be relied upon to manage most of the process with the help of spells and potions even while the patient is unconscious."

Tom would kill Harry if that was done to him – but not any more than he would already kill Harry for drugging him in the first place. Needs must, and all that.

"And this is not something a house elf can manage?" Harry double-checked. If he could rely upon Chatter in this, that would make his life so much easier.

"In theory, but I do not recommend it, my Lord," Greengrass replied, edging toward the door, which gave Harry the hint that he was emoting with such force that she could physically feel the temperature of the room rising.

It was a funny thing – a powerful wizard's anger. Tom's froze the atmosphere, Harry's heated it. When the two got angry at one another, when they really pissed each other off and started fighting, they inevitably created an interior tornado. And Harry cursed himself for once again letting his thoughts wander to his and Tom's better times rather than keeping his attention on the Healer.

"A house elf that is not specifically trained as a nurse simply cannot deal with most of the complications that might arise, and as far as I know there is no such house elf in Britain," Apollonia added when she noticed that he was back in the present.

Good Death Eater, Harry mused unkindly, and cursed himself for it. "I can't do it," he said. "I would, but I am normally too busy with just my duties, and now I have to lead the whole Order for a while." Three days, he reminded himself.

"I'm sorry, my Lord," the woman said contritely. "I have an estate to manage, and a husband who is unwell. I have had to take a leave of absence from the hospital-"

"Give me a name, then," Harry cut her off. She was excused already, and he didn't have the time to listen to lengthy, pointless explanations.

"Cerys Dewhurst…" Apollonia hesitated and then added: "…or Derwick Porterfield. Healer Porterfield has a private practice, and for a _hefty_ enough compensation may be willing to give all his attention to a single patient."

Harry understood her uncertainty. If this Porterfield was willing to take on Tom, there was still no guarantee that he wouldn't harm him – no Hippocratic Oath and no amount of direct supervision would prevent him from doing something underhanded if he was determined.

With great effort, Harry tore his eyes away from Tom's pale, motionless, emaciated face. If he concentrated, he could feel the slightest drain on his magic – Tom sucking through the bond what he needed to sustain himself. Harry would have resolved to cut down on his magical output, except that he basically had none today, anyway. The New Order seemed to consist of management, administration and politics.

"…alright," Harry said eventually. With a wave of his wand he produced parchment and quill, and passed them to the witch. "Write down the names and addresses for me, please. I will contact you if I need you, but I understand you simply do not have the time."

"Thank you, my Lord. You are very kind," Greengrass replied, leaning down to Tom's bedside to use its flat surface. She jotted down two addresses and presented the parchment to Harry.

Harry didn't think he was being especially kind. The stupidest thing one could do was alienate those on whom he depended – the cooks, the servants, the doctors. He had no intention whatsoever to risk being given the wrong potion one day. Apollonia was a good, diligent supporter, skilled and undemanding, and Harry had every intention of rewarding her work one of these days.

"Do you need help with the management of your estate?" he inquired.

The witch stared at him in surprise for a moment, and then shook her head. "No, I do not. I have more than enough experience, and there is not that much to manage – a few investments and a position in the municipal corporation of the London magical district. It is my husband's health which demands most of my time."

Harry nodded and glanced at the bed and the chalk-white figure swathed in pale green covers. "I sympathise."

Apollonia's lips quirked in an understanding smile. "I wish you good luck, my Lord. I you'll excuse me…"

"Of course." She knew the way to the Apparition room, and Harry didn't especially feel like playing the diligent host.

He picked up Tom's limp hand, pressed a kiss to its back, and arranged it on the bed again.

"Dock," he spoke once Greengrass was gone, "let me know immediately if he needs anything or if his state changes."

"Dock will, Master Lord Harry!" the house elf replied promptly.

Harry strode out of the Green Suite as fast as he could. Once in the corridor, he could breathe more easily. The very air around his unconscious husband seemed to stick in his throat and choke him. It made him want to vomit.

"My Lord!" Manon Avery caught up to him, and Harry was once again swept into the carousel of things happening.

He read through several proposals of new laws that were about to go through the Wizengamot, and pointed out which they – as a political party – wanted to pass, and which they wanted thrown out. The lists were sent out to allied holders of Wizengamot seats.

The logistics of hosting a goblin ambassador needed to be considered, but Harry decided that could wait a week. Still, he asked Manon to find a person that could organise it and introduce them to Harry as soon as possible.

Augustus Rookwood came in with the information that the Daily Prophet had discontinued any anti-Ministry propaganda and had replaced it with pro-Ministry campaign, although no obvious smears about the New Order had been published as of yet.

Harry sent Theodore Nott the Second to find out if pressure was being put on the Quibbler to make the same happen.

By lunch-time, Harry was tired, stressed, frustrated, and the mere thought of food turned his stomach. He almost asked Chatter for a Nutrient Potion, but the memory of Tom's face, corpse-like and rigid in forced sleep, made him request another sandwich. Chatter brought him a bowl of chicken soup and gave him a defiant, if somewhat scared, stare.

Harry dismissed her and ate the soup. It lay warm and heavy in his stomach, and sloshed around with his every move.

"My Lord!" the elder Nott barged into the dining room. "Bad news!" He halted, pressing his palm to a stitch in his side and trying to catch his breath.

Harry closed his eyes. It took all his dignity to not groan or bash his head against the table. What now?

"The Lovegoods are being threatened," Nott pressed out. "Nothing overt, especially nothing admissible in court, but the message is clear enough." He pulled a folded parchment out of some mysterious inner fold of his robe and presented it to Harry, who took it and skimmed the lines of neat script.

It was a letter addressed to Xenophilius Lovegood. It vaguely alluded to his daughter and wished him many successes in wisely-chosen future endeavours.

Harry's head hurt, and he strongly suspected that he was close to tearing up. Not in front of his followers, though.

"Have Xenophilius and the Quibbler relocated to a safe place – if you have none available, use a Black property. Whichever Black property. Alert…" Harry stopped himself. No, this wouldn't work. "Find out if any of our people have children in Ravenclaw in the sixth or seventh year. If they do, I want them to keep an eye on Luna Lovegood. I will alert McGonagall myself."

Nott muttered something that could be interpreted as acknowledgement of his orders, and left at a much more sedate pace than he had come in – although the only reason why he would have run through his own Manor instead of Apparating to Harry would be that he feared Harry's potential retribution if he were startled.

On the way to the Private Study, Harry encountered Lucius Malfoy with his partially familiar entourage consisting of four men, of whom one was undoubtedly a Yaxley, and one probably a Rosier. None of them had been a Death Eater. They were all decked out in formal and fashionable robes – and they chattered like Hufflepuff first years after a Herbology lesson.

Lucius raised his hand the moment he noticed Harry, and the four fell into an uneasy silence, followed by belated attempts to bow without breaking ranks of their little group.

Harry could tell by Lucius' expression that he, too, had news.

"The Wizengamot is taking an hour-long recess for refreshment, my Lord," Malfoy explained. And he had brought the following, Harry mentally filled in, to show off and cement a position of power among them when they saw how close to the leadership of the New Order he was, while at the same time he was recruiting. "I have seen to it that your instructions were passed onto their recipients."

Harry nodded. That was a good job, but it was a usual, everyday job for Malfoy, and he couldn't honestly be expecting praise for this, right? Most certainly not in the middle of a crisis – office politics at the Ministry be damned.

Lucius nodded back and seemed to brace himself. "There is an initiative left behind by our _former_ Minister that has been working towards pushing all political parties that do not have Ministry approval into illegality."

"Sounds like Umbridge," Harry agreed, except that Umbridge was dead. And Fudge, whose instrument she had claimed to be, was also dead. And the power behind Fudge had been Lucius Malfoy himself, hadn't he? "Someone is using your own methods against us?"

Lucius sneered. "It was a good plan, and its failure was caused by incompetents!" the man complained.

Harry's hand twitched toward his wand. If Malfoy wouldn't tone down the haughtiness, he might be seen cursed by his Lord rather than praised – and what would his peers think then?

"Nevertheless,_ my Lord_," Lucius quickly continued, emphasising the address, which from him was practically begging for lenience, since he was well-acquainted with all the signs of danger and unwilling to risk Harry's open displeasure. "The legislation has been introduced mere two hours ago. Ordinarily it would take at least a month to gain approval from a committee. In these, if I may quote, 'troubled political times,' Mr McLaggen demanded that his proposal be reviewed in a special evening meeting tomorrow."

Harry wasn't that familiar with the inner workings of the wizarding world's so-called legistative body, but this smelled fishy even to him.

"In one day?" he asked incredulously.

Malfoy solemnly nodded. "The violation of procedure has been pointed out-" he smirked under the glances of his fellows, who practically confirmed Lucius to be the protester, "-but Midgen put it to a vote, and the combined force of Dumbledore's, Fudge's and Scrimgeour's camps overruled us." Then, reluctantly, but with admirable self-preservation, he said: "I apologise, my Lord."

Harry nodded. "Thank you for bringing this to my attention." He wanted to kill something – preferably McLaggen. Or Midgen. Or even Scrimgeour would do. Had Harry honestly thought this morning that Scrimgeour could be helpful? "I assume that today's failure to stall the bill means tomorrow the vote will end the same way."

"Unless there is a significant shift of power in the meantime…" Lucius admitted, leaving the statement open-ended. Apparently, he had faith in his leaders.

Which was, in theory, great, but in practice it meant that Harry had to solve this.

Harry bit the inside of his cheek. He was ready to start screaming or crying or just attack the Ministry head on. Tom would never forgive him. But, damn it! He needed Tom for this! This was Tom's job – strategising at the drop of a hat, navigating the politics safely, being creative enough to come out on top…

Harry's only idea was to resort to a repeat of the attack on Azkaban.

"When will today's session end?" he asked.

"Officially at five o'clock, my Lord," Malfoy informed him. "Should there be an unforeseen emergency-" which there would not be, they communicated through simple eye-contact, "-it may drag on until half past six."

"Chatter!" Harry called out. Thank Merlin for this elf. "I'm calling a meeting of the Inner Circle, tonight, seven o'clock, the Victorian Salon. Inform everyone."

"At once, Master Lord Harry," Chatter's voice replied. There was a slight waft of air, and she was on her way.

"Anything else to report?" Harry asked the men, trying to mask his wariness.

The ones in the back shrank under his stare and hastily shook their heads. The wizard at Lucius' left shoulder, a tall, dark-eyed but otherwise unremarkable noble, stepped forwards instead. "My name is Folant Dewhurst, sir."

Harry blinked. That was… very fast. Somewhat improbably fast.

"Apollonia sent me an urgent owl," he continued. "She and my daughter in law are extended family, friends and colleagues."

"Cerys Dewhurst?" Harry guessed. His eyes momentarily strayed to Malfoy, who affected a slight bow. It paid to have a follower that knew everyone who was anyone. Good damn job, Malfoy, Harry mused, marginally inclining his head, before he turned back to his newest acquaintance, who was speaking again.

"Please, excuse my audacity, but I wished to see the wizard she would be working for before I appraised her of the… offer." Not 'order,' not 'request' – 'offer.' It bordered on sarcasm.

Harry's fingers flexed, yearning for his wand, but he understood very well what this wizard was telling him. It was brave of him – to the point of folly – but Harry was familiar with the Gryffindor way of thinking, and he also wanted the Healer. Both he and Folant Dewhurst were aware of the fact that it was Harry who needed something, and while he probably could have achieved it through violence and extortion, it wouldn't have helped anything.

"Have you assuaged your doubts?" Harry inquired, sliding back into the position of power with ease. This was nothing on Slug Club meetings or Tom's private get-togethers in their seventh year at Hogwarts.

"I shall entrust my daughter in law into your hospitality," the wizard replied. It could have been a threat, except that everyone present knew too damn well that it wasn't. Dewhurst was brave, but not a moron.

"Now if you will excuse me," Harry said in a clear dismissal, "I am beginning to understand why a single Dark Lord never could have taken over the government. Lucius, I will see you at seven."

"My Lord," Malfoy intoned, echoed by his entourage's mumbling.

Harry watched them go, striving to remember where he had been headed before they had intercepted him. Ah, yes. The Private Study. To talk to McGonagall. About Luna Lovegood.

He turned, stepped forward and stumbled. He caught himself, of course – with the minor help of the wall – but the mere fact that he couldn't even walk straight heightened his frustration to the point that he was ready to try the Transmogrifian Torture on the next person to address him.

The trek to the Private Study was short, and Harry found the room blissfully empty. He pilfered a Pepper-Up from Tom's locked drawer, and with a fistful of Floo powder sank to his knees in front of the fireplace. For a while he simply sat of his haunches, head thrown back and eyes closed, trying to regain some sort of internal equilibrium. The Pepper-Up kicked in, and he felt a little like he might survive at least until the Inner Circle meeting.

He threw the Floo powder into the fire. "Hogwarts, Head's Office!"

Sticking his head into the green flames, Harry stifled a chuckle. He was a Dark Lord, on his knees, neck-deep in a fire-place. There was something to be said for an utter lack of dignity. Sometimes it brought things into perspective.

"Headmistress!" he called out.

McGonagall practically shot out from behind her sprawling desk, and hurriedly crouched in front of her hearth so that she could talk to him on level. Her palms were pressed to the carpet, but even so Harry could see that her hands were trembling.

Guilty conscience, perhaps? Had Harry almost-caught her doing something nefarious? Any other day he would try and find out what was going on, but right now he had other business to discuss.

"Mr Po- Mr Riddle," McGonagall corrected herself. Apparently, in her head she still equated him with Harry Potter the Gryffindor student. Which was good for him. "Is there a problem?"

Harry followed her example and cut through the pleasantries and the small talk to the matter at hand: "It has been brought to my attention that persons with close ties in the Ministry have been threatening the Lovegood family."

"I see." The witch nodded. She raised one of her hands from the floor and fisted it in the folds of her green robe. There was a scowl on her face, one that Harry recalled from his childhood – she wore this expression when her students were threatened. "I will make sure that Miss Lovegood remains safe," she assured Harry.

He believed her. Whoever was mad enough to try and challenge her would be glad to be left to slink back to the Ministry with their tail between their legs.

"Thank you," he said.

McGonagall shook her head, refusing the gratitude for something she felt was her duty. Her eyes returned to Harry's face. "If you forgive me, Mr Riddle, you do not look well."

You don't say? Harry mused. Outwardly, he gave the witch a brittle smile. "It has been an extremely long week."

"And it is far from over," she added.

"Yes," Harry agreed.

They sighed in unison.

Ironically, this was the most pleasant meeting today for Harry. He wished he could prolong it, but nevertheless he forced himself to say: "I won't keep you."

"I will see you soon," McGonagall replied, and then smirked. "I can't describe how glad I am to see you have not changed fundamentally."

Harry shrugged, although she couldn't see it through the fire. "I am who I am, Headmistress. Who I was made into by those who sought to shape me."

The name 'Dumbledore' hung in the air between them.

"Look after yourself, Mr Riddle," the witch implored as Harry pulled his head back into the Nott Manor. He honestly hated Floo-calling.

"_Tergeo_," he muttered, getting rid of the soot on his doublet. "_Tempus_."

It was past two. Harry's common sense didn't let him believe that he would manage to stay awake until seven and _then_ actively participate in the planning of their sabotage of Wizengamot. There was self-confidence, and then there was wishful thinking.

He would get a few hours of sleep. If any major catastrophe would happen in the meantime, Chatter would come and get him.

There was a serviceable sofa in the living room of the Green Suite.

Just as Harry climbed to his feet, someone perfunctorily knocked on the door and let themselves in without waiting to be admitted. A young man stepped in, carrying an armful of scrolls, which he deposited onto Tom's table, without even noticing Harry's presence.

"Pucey," Harry stated, surprised by how low his voice sank.

The wizard spun on his heel and, finally having noticed that he wasn't alone in the office, scrambled to bow. "I was… delivering some documents, my Lord. Lord Mulciber sent me-"

"Where is Theodore?" Harry inquired, unhappy to see this young man, who had never been a Death Eater, and definitely was not someone Harry trusted, traipse through the office unsupervised. These deliveries were usually made by the youngest Nott.

"He's moving the printing office…?" Pucey guessed.

Harry was briefly surprised, before he came to the conclusion that the young man was talking about Theodore the Second. "I meant his son."

"The brat?" Pucey sneered. "Runcorn sent him outside to play."

A second later he was convulsing on the floor and screaming, bathed in a green and gold stream of light from Harry's wand. _Tendiripi_, Harry realised in hindsight. The Ligament-rending Curse. Somehow he had cast it without even being aware of it.

Slowly, he let the stream of magic fade. Pucey remained curled up at Harry's feet, twitching and spitting out bits of vomit.

Harry Levitated him into the corridor, Locked the door behind him with several intimidating spells and hexed it for a good measure. He went away feeling a little lighter.

x

Proximity wards woke Harry after dark. He sat up on the sofa, found his glasses, lit up the candles with a lazy wave of his hand and opened the door with nary a gesture.

"My Lord?" a soft voice asked; the shadowed figure of Theodore the younger paused at the threshold, wary of entering the lair of the beast without express permission.

"Come in, Theo," Harry told him. "_Tempus_."

He still had half an hour before his alarm would have roused him, which meant that the meeting he had called would start in three quarters of an hour.

"Have you had a chance to rest?" the boy inquired, apprehensively looking at the heap of parchments on the desk under the window. To Harry's shock, he was followed into the room by an owl, which came to rest on Harry's shoulder and bit his ear.

"Hedwig?" Harry said quietly, and was awarded another nip. He had to smile.

"Rabastan told me to bring her when he found out I was coming here," the youngest Nott explained, glancing at Hedwig. "She is a majestic bird."

"Sit," Harry ordered the boy, who looked like he might object, but eventually sank into the armchair opposite Harry. A house elf, unbidden, provided them with tea and sandwiches, and Harry had to smile again. Mother hens. But he was lucky to have them.

"I apologise for disturbing you, my Lord," Theo spoke. "I should have waited until it was closer to seven." He poured tea for both of them and handed Harry his cup, so that Hedwig's perch wouldn't have to be disturbed.

"I have had good four hours of sleep," Harry assured him. "I am well." He was also glad that, despite the disrespect toward Theodore Nott the Third (probably based on his age) suggested by Pucey's and Runcorn's conduct, the boy was aware of the meeting.

Harry, then and there, resolved to Mark the boy to prevent any such occurrences in the future.

"Healer Dewhurst will be available after half past eight," Theodore said. "The Quibbler has been successfully relocated. Mr Lovegood…" The boy rubbed his temples and tried again: "According to those present at the site, Mr Lovegood activated an obscure enchantment on his domicile and _flew_ it to its present location, which is within sight of the new printing office."

Having once been acquainted with Luna, Harry decided that this amounted to normal Lovegood behaviour, and resolved to not think on it further.

In the undemanding, comfortable company, food didn't appear unpalatable anymore. Theodore continued his highly abridged report while Harry ate a sandwich and tried his best to follow the news and nod at the correct times. Aside from the Ministry being underhanded and belligerent, things were going smoothly.

Hedwig clacked her beak and Harry absently scratched her head, ruffling and then smoothing her feathers. She took flight, and Harry opened the window for her; it had been nice to have her with him for a while, but he had promised himself he would never again see her caged. They had been imprisoned at the Dursleys together, and they would enjoy their hard-won freedom together.

"Go ahead, Theodore. I'll follow in a little while," Harry said, standing in front of the window and gazing at the star-speckled sky. It was to be a clear, cold night. He needed to be like that tonight: clear-minded and cold.

"Yes, my Lord," the boy obediently replied, and let himself out of the Green Suite.

Harry went to the bedroom and in the light of a Lumos surveyed Tom. There was no apparent change, and the house elf standing in the deepest shadows in the corner was doing its duty diligently. Reminded of his exasperation with his husband, Harry went straight to the Victorian Salon.

It wasn't quite seven yet, but when Harry entered the chamber, everyone was already gathered there, waiting for him. Both Notts, all three Lestranges, Manon and Aurelius Avery, Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, Augustus Rookwood, Vulcan Mulciber, Alastor Moody, Nomiki Meadows and Apollonia Greengrass were seated in a semi-circle; there was an armchair at its center waiting for Harry.

Usually there would have been a settee, for himself and Tom.

Usually, Antonin would be there, a stalwart, reliable sentinel.

Usually, Harry wouldn't be practically vibrating with bloodlust.

"Lucius, a brief and concise report," Harry ordered, swallowing the 'please' he was about to tack on. He sat down, crossed his legs in a gesture horribly reminiscent of Tom, laced his fingers, rested them on his knee, and inclined his head to the side.

There were some muffled gasps and a cut-off curse – obviously he had startled those followers who thought they had him figured out and had mostly slid into the complacency of regarding him as Tom's shadow. Tybalt, Aurelius, Vulcan and Augustus straightened in their seats. Narcissa's eyes widened.

Theodore the Third lowered his head and hid a smile behind his hand.

While Lucius presented the situation to the gathered group, Harry brainstormed. He scrapped any assassination plans. He decided not to create a minor catastrophe that would tie up the Ministry elsewhere. Propaganda would not be fast enough. He didn't have the basis for a coup d'état in this instance.

The Wizengamot did have a quorum, but less than half of it was filled with wizards and witches loyal to Tom and Harry. The rest would suffice to pass laws. Those were mostly conservatives, idealists, sycophants, noveau riche, and the kind of opportunists that thought to take advantage of the recent upheavals and cheat their way to the top.

"…to implement this measure before six o'clock tomorrow, when the meeting in question will begin," Lucius finished.

"How are they even doing this without a Minister?" Harry asked. He had expected that Scrimgeour's absence would halt the legislative process, if not freeze it completely until there was a new Minister.

"On the authority of the Chief Walrock, of course," Rookwood informed him.

"McKinnon is an idiot!" Moody opined, almost like he was reading Harry's mind.

"An idiot owned by our enemies," Aurelius pointed out.

"Has my Lord husband mentioned any reason for this idiot to stay in the office?" Harry asked, invigorated now that they have identified an obvious chink in their opposition's armour. Get rid of their puppet Chief Warlock and there would be no one to back their demands to be exempt from procedure.

There was silence. Harry could assume Tom had no plans for McKinnon. Thank Merlin for small mercies.

"Then we'll get rid of him," Harry stated. "Anything we have on him – from child abuse to illegal potions trafficking, _anything_. We're not pulling our punches right now. I want him sunk on his own merit. No assassination, no unfortunate accident – I want him exposed. Anyone?"

His sudden intensity didn't startle his followers as badly as it had before, but there was still uneasy shuffling and exchanged glances.

"It will be done, my Lord," Aurelius promised. He didn't explain more, but Harry knew enough of the practices of the pureblood supremacist families to infer that the Averys had a cache of blackmail material for every purpose, and Aurelius was going to sacrifice some of it for the sake of the New Order.

"I shall call for a vote of no confidence in the morning," followed up Lucius, who had likely figured out even more of the details than Harry had – being a pureblood supremacist himself.

"Good," Harry approved, mentally going through his list of prominent allies, because leaving a power vacuum would mean they would be facing this situation again in a week. "Try to push in Portia Prewett. She's not ours, but she's not against us, either, and right now she's one of the few with a glimmer of a real chance to be voted in. Unless I'm mistaken?"

Malfoy mournfully shook his head. "My allegiance to you is too well known, my Lord."

Oh, martyr yourself, why don't you? Harry bit down a grimace. So, presumably, did Narcissa.

"Amos Diggory, perhaps, my Lord," Meadows suggested.

"No," Mulciber shot her down. "Diggory is a few bristles short of a broom, and everyone knows it."

"Longbottom?" Moody asked.

This time the others took a while to consider it.

"Very, very volatile," Tybalt summed up. "But feasible, should Prewett not work out."

"Augusta won't go for it," Aurelius objected. "She would be good in that position, but she dislikes the society, and I would not bare my neck to her in trying to manipulate her."

"A temporary solution will be sufficient right now," said Nott the elder, implying that they could just as easily topple another Chief Warlock anytime they needed. It was not exactly true, and it was the sort of defeatist thinking Tom would not have tolerated in his presence.

As it was, Harry was tempted to hurt the man just to exorcise some tension. He refrained.

"How long do we need to stall, my Lord?" Mulciber inquired.

"Until the New Year," Harry replied with optimism he didn't feel. Still, he obviously managed to convey enough authority to convince the core of the New Order that he knew what he was talking about, and that there was a plan in the works.

Yes, well… Harry's plan was to get Tom back on his feet and have him solve this mess. Simple and practical.


	16. Philosophy

A/N: This was originally supposed to be the other half of Chapter Thirteen, which is why some things aren't getting resolved yet. Please, be patient with Tom. He's too damn headstrong – he'll get there when he'll get there. Consequently, bucketloads of Harry-angst.

x

Chapter Fourteen: Philosophy

x

"Healer Dewhurst," Harry said as solemnly as he could, "my husband is the most important person in the world to a great many very powerful people. You do see where I am going with this."

Dewhurst, obviously nervous, sketched a bow.

Harry nodded to acknowledge her understanding. "Good. Now I will break the protocol, and you will excuse me, but I must ask for your Oath of Silence."

The woman looked at him with wide, dark eyes. Her first instinct was, naturally, to invoke Healer-patient confidentiality, but she must have recognised Harry's expression. He wasn't in the mood for compromises. When it came to Tom's health and well-being, there never would be any compromises.

"Yes, Lord Riddle," she said quietly, cowed rather than resentful. "You have my Oath of Silence regarding your husband, Lord Riddle, and my treatment of him."

Harry's magic latched onto the words and spun them into a Vow much stronger than they were originally meant to be.

Dewhurst flinched when it took hold; it stood to reason that she had never experienced anything like it.

"Good," Harry spoke softly, to himself as well as to the young woman. "Have you consulted with Apollonia?"

Dewhurst nodded. "Yes, Lord Riddle. She apprised me of the… _patient's_ condition…"

Harry gestured her to go on, unhappy with but resigned to Tom's designation as 'patient.'

"Lady Greengrass suggested certain measures to be taken, but recommended that I conduct my own diagnostics. Frankly, sir, I wouldn't be comfortable attempting any procedure on a patient with whose condition I am not personally familiar-"

Harry raised his hand to stave off the barrage of words. The witch clamped her mouth shut, bit onto her lips and tried to not shrink under what she perceived as Harry's displeasure. He had to stop himself from sighing.

"Do your job to the best of your ability, Healer," he ordered. "In this instance we rely on your expertise – your effort shall be accordingly rewarded. Can you estimate the time you will require?"

Dewhurst took a deep breath and briefly considered the answer, compulsively tugging onto a strand of hair that escaped out of her bun. "Should there be no complications, sir, I'd expect thirty-six to forty-eight hours of intensive care, with several weeks of aftercare, depending on the patient's… diligence in following directions."

Harry wished he could snort without messing with his lordly image. There was no one who responded worse to directions than Tom. Even Harry could, at times, follow someone's lead, but Tom actually _suffered_, literally, when he was subjected to the will of another. Harry maintained that it was psychosomatic, but that was neither here nor there.

He really couldn't see his headstrong husband taking this – no offence intended – _girl's_ orders.

Well, it was just another of great many bridges to cross once he reached them.

"Dock!"

The elf stepped out of a shadow.

"A house elf will be at your disposal at any time – you may ask for anything you need," Harry explained to the wide-eyed Healer. "The house elves will switch according to their schedule. You will treat them with respect." He felt the need to include this condition, because Dewhurst was, by all indications, a pureblood, and too damn many of them used house elves as convenient outlets for misplaced aggression.

"Of course, sir," the woman replied, looking mildly offended.

"If you need anything they cannot provide, they will contact me. If you require information or my presence or…" he couldn't imagine what else a Healer might need, "…basically, despite the fact that I cannot afford to spend my day at my husband's bedside, I am very invested in his well-being."

The woman's expression softened, and she lowered her head in a gesture that could have meant submission, sympathy or acquiesce. "I'll do my best, Lord Riddle."

Harry wasn't happy with the state of affairs, but when Dock calmly met his eyes and bowed in understanding of the implied command, he forced his feet to carry him out of the room and then out of the Green Suite, leaving Tom alone with the woman. The elves would watch her every movement.

x

The night was somewhat surreal. A lot of the people who usually haunted the Manor were out, managing the McKinnon situation from various ends. The former Death Eaters had a sort of an owl directory, through which they spread the word about the intended coup; the Averys were off gathering their blackmail material and having their retainers contact Gringotts, which in turn was going to pass copies of all documents to the DMLE with enough bang to make sure that Amelia Bones personally was going to be there for the arrest.

Theodore Nott the Third was curled up in an armchair in front of the fireplace in the Private Study, looking unexpectedly young, his pale face half-shadowed, half illuminated by the flickering, orange firelight. He held an empty cognac glass in one hand; the other was pressed to his cheek and mostly hidden under shaggy dark hair.

Harry cast a Silencing Ward around him to let him sleep, feeling a little guilty for not doing the responsible, adult thing and sending him off to bed. Still, the sight of him filled Harry with enthusiasm, which was something that he sorely needed tonight.

Sometimes after two (because at two Dock came to him with a brief report about Healer Dewhurst's progress and the changing of the guard from him to an elf called Laeg) Harry fell asleep at Tom's desk.

He woke before dawn, which, considering that it was late December, wasn't very early at all. There was a commotion outside, and he off-handedly cancelled the spell surrounding Theo before he went off to use the bathroom. Mildly refreshed and actually hungry, he found out what was going on.

Theodore Nott the Second was – as the Lord of the Nott Manor – managing a breach of security detected by the wards. There was a house elf whom Harry didn't recognise standing deferentially in the background while a group of four wizards crowded around a figure on the frozen ground. As they shouted, the exhaled strands of vapour formed a small cloud between their heads.

"Bitch!" one of the men roared.

Another knelt down to grab a flailing limb that was about to strike his fellow into the soft tissue. Whomever they had found, the person wasn't about to give up without a fight.

"Hey, Nott!" one of the kneeling ones shouted. "You mind-"

"It _is_ my property," Theodore the Second pointed out smugly, as if it hadn't occurred to everyone already – and as if he hadn't been complaining about just that yesterday. Or the day before that. Lately, days were running together for Harry. He should at least have a calendar and check them off, or he was liable to completely miss Christmas. _Yule_. Yes, he was now a figurehead of the British wizarding world – he was expected to celebrate _Yule_.

Harry remained standing in front of the Manor gates, grimly aware of the usual way purebloods of the Dark inclination dealt with invaders in their homes. The same way muggles assumed that a stranger breaking into their house was a thief, a pureblood wizard would assume the stranger was an assassin. It was expected of them to kill any such interloper, and should any torture happen before the death… who would ask? The law was on the home owner's side in this instance.

The situation here was a little more complicated, because Harry was a guest in the Nott Manor, but should he request the prisoner for himself, Theodore would be expected to comply with his Lord. And Theodore would. He was much less refined than either his father or his son, but even in Tom's absence he had the presence of mind to recognise when he was hopelessly outclassed and outpowered.

A silence spread over the group; the last couple of insults vulgar enough to make Harry want to grimace echoed off the Manor's walls, and Harry stepped forwards to look at whom they had caught.

There she was: dressed in a form-fitting green dress, with her glasses missing and her eyes wide in fear, Harry still unmistakably recognised Rita Skeeter. He didn't often feel the darker emotions tugging at him, but in this instance Harry was not going to step in. Her biography of Albus Dumbledore was already published, so no one needed her anymore, did they?

"Good morning, my Lord," the four young men said, almost in unison.

"My Lord," Nott added, inclining his head. "The secondary Taboo-response unit has assisted me in apprehending an intruder on our grounds." He sounded like he was trying to apologise for monopolising their time when they were supposed to be on alert.

Harry looked at the foursome more closely – they were, as opposed to the experimental mixed unit, all of similar temperament and probably background, too. Four pureblood wizards in their late twenties or early thirties. The best age to shape them.

"So I see," Harry replied lightly.

"I would…" Nott hesitated.

"Of course," Harry said. "As is your right. Have the unit return to their posts once you don't require their assistance anymore."

He ignored the eyes boring into his back as he turned and walked away. Still, just in case, he paused before he re-entered the building. "Please, be certain that this witch cannot use her Animagus-form, should she have one. I would be most displeased to find that her apprehension was temporary."

That was as clear an order for execution as he had ever given. It wasn't his usual way of doing things; this was Tom's purview. Still, Harry had been standing right behind Tom for years while he gave such orders regularly. Harry had learnt to kill and torture without shame, to rely on the Vision to lead him in recognising what was wrong and right. Taking pleasure in the knowledge that someone who had hurt him in the past was going to be murdered was a little too amoral for comfort… but Harry deeply inhaled the cold, crisp morning air and drew a mental line behind the business.

No more Skeeter.

Sure, there would be a slew of other 'Skeeters' following in her footsteps, but this particular contest of wills had ended satisfactorily for him.

Good Merlin, he was so far gone. He needed Tom.

His feet carried him straight to the Green Suite. He wanted to fall into his – and his husband's – bed and fuck and sleep for a week, but there was a scent of potions hanging in the air of their living room permeating in from the bedchamber. Cerys Dewhurst was slumped, unconscious, on the sofa.

Harry scowled. "Laeg, is she alright?"

"Mistress Healer is being great, great tired, Master Lord Harry," replied the new house elf – to Harry's surprise, in a distinctly female voice. "She is must be sleeping now. She is doing great good for Master Lord Tom."

"Did she say anything about not going in?" he inquired.

Laeg appeared, demure, with her eyes glued to the ground and her arms crossed in front of her chest. "She is saying no moving Master Lord Tom. No giving Master Lord Tom any potions. No magic on Master Lord Tom. Waking her if Master Lord Tom is in pain or awake."

"Right," Harry answered, and went straight to the bedroom.

Tom looked exactly the same as he had looked twelve hours ago – still, pale, emaciated. He was breathing deeply, slowly; he seemed to be sleeping peacefully at least. Harry crawled onto 'his' half of the bed and watched his husband's chest rise and fall for almost two minutes, before he felt sufficiently reassured that Tom wasn't about to spontaneously die on him.

"Laeg is sorry, Master Lord Harry," the house elf said quietly, touching Harry's shoulder and then jumping away once Harry rolled over to look at her. She cringed and raised her hands to tweak her ears. "There is being food for you, Master Lord Harry," she finished in a frightened whisper.

Harry still hated seeing a house elf so downtrodden, so he placated her and even mustered up some weak praise, all the while feeling relieved that he had, after all, not become a sociopath, even though he didn't miss his erstwhile friends or prevent Rita Skeeter's ignominious death.

He let the sleeping Healer be and set out to find something to do. He found it in the Private Study. The younger Nott was since gone, but his father dropped in to assure Harry that their unwelcome visitor had been disposed of (the report lacked detail, and Harry decided that he was supposed to be glad for that). Tybalt and Rabastan puttered around. Dexia came with the latest Prophet and an armful of scrolls, and took just as many with her as she left. Manon Avery turned up with her, dark circles under her eyes and a smirk that she couldn't seem to suppress for more than two minutes at a time.

"Bones went to get him personally, just as you anticipated, my Lord," the witch told him with unexpected blood thirst.

"What did you have on him?" Harry inquired offhandedly, mostly focusing on a piece of correspondence from Portia Prewett that was apparently written in some sort of pureblood code that he didn't have the slightest hope of cracking. He set the parchment down and rubbed his temples.

"He 'disposed' of several Squib children for his friends' families. I am not familiar with the details, but I gather they were not granted quick deaths." For a moment the young witch's smugness abated, replaced with disgust.

Harry knew how she felt. He wished he could be surprised, but he had already accepted that every politician had to be elevated into his or her position on the bony hands of the skeletons in their closets. And once a man lost his morals, there was no telling what he would do.

That was, Harry mused with morbid humour, why fanaticism was the only way to fight the system – the only way to change the world.

Thank Merlin for Tom.

"…unfortunately," Manon was telling him, under the mistaken impression that he was listening to her, "weren't able to convince them without using undue force. Since, apparently, undue force is being used on them from the other side. Uncle was under the impression that they were all on the verge of quitting."

Harry gathered that she was talking about the Daily Prophet. The headlines of today's issue were proclaiming a social coup of a wedding between some Welsh heiress and a dirt-poor half-veela with unknown background. Apparently, not even the Daily Prophet could spin totalitarian legislation proposed in the Wizengamot as something the people should be happy with.

And, of course, as Miss Avery had warned him: "It's a little unexpected to not see McKinnon mentioned in the newspaper."

Tybalt philosophically shrugged. "The Aurors have apprehended the second Chief Warlock within two months, my Lord. That is exactly the kind of press the Ministry doesn't need at the moment."

"I thought the Daily Prophet pandered to the Malfoys," Harry wondered. The only time he could recall any sort of negative press connected to the Malfoy name was… actually, it was just before his first journey through time, at the end of his fifth year at Hogwarts.

"Not hardly, my Lord," Manon refuted his assumption, and even managed to sound somewhat respectful. "The Prophet is the Ministry's mouthpiece. It obeys whomever is in power there – and that's not the Malfoys anymore."

Harry scowled and glanced over the witch's shoulder at the eldest Lestrange. Tybalt was watching her with both his eyebrows raised.

That made Harry feel a little more secure in his understanding of how the wizarding world worked. The Ministry perpetually brought the newspaper under their thumb, but parts of the Ministry were being perpetually moved under the thumbs of various interested parties. It was an anthill of corruption.

Nevertheless, Miss Avery made a correct observation in that Lucius didn't have quite as much influence as he used to have when Harry was at Hogwarts (not to mention that the woman looked to be happy about the Malfoy's bad fortune – Harry detected some resentment there).

"Not since Fudge's death and Scrimgeour's instatement," Rabastan agreed, idly leafing through a folder, reading only the titles. "In fact, not since Lucius' incarceration. He does have his bitter moments about it."

"I hope we're keeping him busy enough," Harry said dryly. Lucius had appeared content the last few times Harry had seen him – preening and strutting and showing off. He did seem to be in extraordinary form.

"His recent successes do take away the sting from _that_ indignity," Tybalt remarked humorously.

"Swell," Harry concluded, feeling for an instance that he had done a little of his growing up in the forties.

"Found it," Rabastan announced, and handed a piece of parchment over to his father.

"Something of interest?" Harry asked, hoping to be told no.

"Unfortunately, my Lord," Tybalt answered, frowning at the parchment with enough ire to potentially set it on fire. "Selwyn raised a concern that your Potions Master is padding his invoices, but it appears that there is no fraud happening. According to this… well, see for yourself."

Harry accepted the parchment and tried to figure out what he was looking at. It was an invoice from a Potions Master, just as Tybalt had told him. Harry had never stopped to think about where his potions were coming from since Snape's ignominious death – evidently, they were being brewed by an U. W. Tannenbaum, residence in Oxford. Alright. Why not. There were security concerns, of course, but Tom would have taken care of those.

The problem was the six gallons of Nutrient Potion. Harry didn't have a clue about how many potions and what amounts of them would be needed for a group like the New Order, organised but definitely not responsible for the health of the individual members barring those who presently lived at the Nott Manor, but this was a _monthly_ invoice, and _six gallons_ was an insane amount. _Hogwarts_ probably didn't go through six gallons in a freaking month!

This wasn't Tom's purchase order, Harry knew that. If Tom had commissioned it and not wanted anyone to know, no one would have ever found out.

"Who…?" Harry asked, handing the parchment back to the elder Lestrange, who stood a much better chance of making sense of it.

"Apparently, the order was filed by a house elf named _Dippy_," Tybalt informed him, sardonically amused.

"The house elves have been mother-henning the whole lot of us," Rabastan concluded incredulously, snorted, and sank into the nearest chair. He hid his face in his hands. "_Un_believable."

With Chatter involved, Harry would believe it. Also, she probably had some family members in the elf contingent, and if they were anything like her, the whole lot of them probably daily schemed about how to take the absolute best care of their 'Masters.'

Harry momentarily remembered poor deluded Hermione and her pointless and misguided quest to free the house elves. Slavery was bad, Harry agreed. Abuse was bad, too. But this was nature at work, and going against nature was the very reason why muggles would eventually all die, having poisoned themselves and the planet and… well, he was digressing.

Still. _Muggle_ notions.

They needed an introductory class for muggleborns at Hogwarts. Harry jotted down a note on his scrap parchment and returned it to the lowermost drawer of Tom's desk. Those were the low-priority, low-expedience issues.

"_Shit_!" Harry suddenly exclaimed as something occurred to him.

The three other people in the room collectively flinched at his unexpected use of Parseltongue, and turned to him in anticipation.

"What happens to you if you overdose on Nutrient Potions?" He was never that good a Potions student, and he had forgotten everything he hadn't needed to know since he had sat his N.E.W.T.s.

"Merciful Morrigan!" Tybalt gasped, catching onto what Harry was implying. Manon and Rabastan, however, were still in the dark, and Harry wanted his answers, so Tybalt took a deep breath and explained: "Essentially, the body will stop accepting any nutrients whatsoever. Not from potions, and not from food either. Even if the wizard would start eating regularly, he would starve to death."

"But this is something a Healer would catch, right?" Harry demanded, glad that he sounded cold and detached rather than borderline hysterical. Greengrass had mentioned addiction, hadn't she? And Dewhurst said something about detox, _right_?

Harry should have known Tom wouldn't have deliberately run himself into the ground, and he was more than competent when it came to potions and dosage. He could be trusted to self-medicate responsibly.

Damn proactive house elves.

Harry swallowed bile. His fingers tightened on the handle of his wand, and it took all his self-control, combined with his recent thoughts on abuse, to stop him from going down to the kitchen elf-hive and start casting Killing Curses.

"Definitely," Tybalt assured him.

"I can't deal with this right now," Harry admitted. "Someone should tell Nott that his staff is administrating dangerous substances to us without our knowledge."

He practically ran out of the room. For a while he simply walked, not caring where he ended, but once he found himself outside, he trudged on.

He needed Tom – gods, how he needed Tom.

As he passed the training grounds, he listened to the noise and briefly considered stopping to exorcise some of this strange heat that was scorching his insides… but he couldn't. He couldn't go there, he couldn't fight people. Even in a practice duel, his magic would kill. He was brimming with it, filled so full that he felt like he would explode with the sheer pressure of it. He felt like he could crack Hogwarts' wards like a walnut. He could annihilate the whole of the Ministry. He could leave the Diagon Alley a smoking crater in the ground.

He couldn't turn it on people.

He had to bleed it off, though, lest it would control him completely. This insane rage, this insane power didn't care what it was destroying as long as it would destroy something, _anything_. It would thrive on screams of pain, he was sure. It would cherish the shattering of bones and soak up the smell of blood. It had to be released before Harry would be fit for human company, otherwise it would turn him into another Grindelwald.

Poor Gellert, Harry mused through the red haze of wrath. Poor generous boy, with heart so giving that he made it his life's goal to help people. So _fucking_ hurt when he found that those people didn't want to be helped.

So angry.

Harry found a huge boulder and cast the most basic spell he could recall – _Lumos_. His magic churned out of him, twisted, and within seconds reduced the stone to so much powder. Harry let out an inarticulate yell of ire; there was a pulse of heat and the grass within fifty yards of him turned to ashes. Shivering, he remained standing in the centre of the blackened circle.

He tried to count his heartbeats.

It didn't work. He was still feeling murderous.

Perhaps the Dursleys… no, he wasn't going to go there. Not now, not ever. He was stronger than that. Tom relied on him. The entire New Order relied on him at the moment. He couldn't just go off the deep end.

He forced his legs to walk again. He found more boulders along the way and destroyed them, too. At some point he vaporised a small pond.

Eventually he exhausted himself. His limbs ached, his muscles burned, and he still wanted to cry and rave, but at least he felt in control of himself. His head was clearer than it had been in days.

"_Expecto patronum_…" he whispered. The basilisk slithered out of his wand and coiled around him like a particularly affectionate pet. Harry patted his semi-tangible head and, despite significant effort, failed to smile. "_Hey, Sal. Let's go home, what do you say_?"

x

Healer Dewhurst confirmed to Harry that his husband _had_ overdosed on not only Nutrient Potions, but also on high-concentration Pepper-Ups – which had shocked her, since Pepper-Up overdose was believed to be an urban myth amongst the Healers. Apparently, the second condition somehow tied into the first, but Harry wasn't interested in more jargon. He just wanted to know _when_ Tom was going to be fine.

"I've every hope that the patient will be ready to regain consciousness in eighteen hours, sir," the witch assured him in between ladling soup into her mouth and taking bites of a piece of bread.

She was looking grey around the edges and Harry didn't care that much about etiquette… unless she would start talking with her mouth full. He still had the nightmarish memories of Ron.

"I've been keeping him in artificial sleep – that's why he isn't waking on his own – but he'd be in pain during the procedure anyway, and maybe try to struggle, so it's safer for everyone this way."

"Does he…" Harry hesitated, but then resolved to ask anyway, since he did have her Oath of Silence. "Does he dream?"

"No," Dewhurst refuted, and wiped her mouth with a napkin. "He reacts to something sometimes – I've estimated that to be your heightened emotions, Lord Riddle. He's still quite dependent on your magic."

Harry nodded. His eyes strayed to the door to the bedchamber, standing ajar. He could barely sense Tom's presence behind it. His heartstrings were tugging at him, however, drawing him in that direction, making him go and reassure himself that Tom was breathing, was still there, just waiting to see if Harry was going to fuck up without his guidance, or if he did indeed deserve the position of the second Dark Lord and the respect that went with it.

Harry was momentarily stunned at the turn his thoughts had taken, but when he thought back to the past few weeks and the manner in which Tom had reacted to Harry's efforts it was perhaps, somewhat, understandable.

That wasn't Tom's fault. It was just the way Harry was left feeling and, without the usually ubiquitous reassuring presence of the bond, his old insecurities – _thank you_, Dursleys! – seemed to be cropping up.

"Excuse me, sir," Dewhurst spoke up, almost startling Harry, "but are you sure that you're alright?"

"Yes," Harry replied coolly. It's been a couple of long days for him, and before that a couple of long months. But he was going to dig in his heels and fulfill the promises he made.

"If you don't need me," she said in a tone that suggested she thought he _did_ need her but wasn't going to argue with him, "I require some sleep before I return to work. I'm sorry but-"

"Yes, yes." Harry waved her off.

One of the elves popped in to show her a guest room she could use. There _was_ another habitable room within the Green Suite, but that one was expected to be at Harry's disposal. Not that Harry would use it. There were plenty of sofas and settees and armchairs.

Once he was fairly sure that Dewhurst wasn't about to return anytime soon, he went through his chest of drawers and, beneath his disorganised pile of personal correspondence, located a stack of photographs. They were some of the saddest and cruelest pictures that he had ever seen – but Antonin had implored him to be cruel, hadn't he? So Harry had had these collected even before Tom had gone so wildly irrational that Harry had resorted to sedating him. He had meant to use them as a sort of aversion therapy.

Looking at the pictures of recently liberated prisoners from Nazi concentration camps made Harry sick to the stomach – Tom wasn't quite that far gone, but to Harry it seemed like it was a near thing.

The process itself – the Copying and Enlarging and Pasting onto the walls – was easy with a few spells almost every Hogwarts student learnt well before they took their O.W.L.s, but Harry found that his limbs were unexpectedly heavy as he stepped around the bed, and it had little to do with the soreness left over after his freak-out in the morning. His ankle brushed the hanging edge of Tom's blanket.

Eighteen hours, Harry promised himself. He had to be patient now.

He surveyed his morbid artwork and had to look away. It was every bit as horrible as he had imagined it would be – somewhat similar to the horror of the newly resurrected Voldemort rising from the cauldron, but at the same time worse due to its implied commonality.

He didn't want Dewhurst to see it.

A glamour took care of that.

"Chatter is saying, you is having to eat now, Master," Inky spoke softly but determinedly into the silence.

Harry sneered. "If I find my food contaminated, I'll take a leaf out of Malfoy's book," he promised to the trembling little creature.

Inky wrung her hands and stared and the floor.

"Am I clear enough?!" Harry snapped.

"Yes, Master!" the elf cried out and threw herself onto her knees. "We is very sorry, Master! We is not hurting Masters – never hurting! We is doing as Masters is saying. Clean food! Good food for-"

"Yes," Harry cut her off. His heartbeat was much too fast, his temper rising, but at least he had enough control that he wasn't cursing her. "If this happens again – if it is found that anyone was dosed with anything without permission, I will make the perpetrator _rue_ the day he or she was born."

Huge, fat tears trickled down Inky's cheeks, before she clamped her hands to her mouth to muffle a wail.

"Tell that to everyone," Harry finished. "Dismissed."

When the elf was gone, he allowed himself to marginally relax. He thought about the way he had treated the house elves, and whether he had ultimately brought this upon himself, but decided that it was not his fault. Perhaps he should have given more thought to the elves' helpful nature, and to the manner in which their helpfulness showed when they were especially fond of someone, since Dobby should have been all the warning he would ever need… Nevertheless, the house elves' cooperation with him was usually excellent, exceeding everything he had ever seen happen for other wizards and witches, and he wanted to keep that.

Obviously, there was a need to state some new boundaries for their working relationship. He truly believed that the creatures had meant no harm – had, in fact, honestly been trying to help – but in their lack of knowledge misjudged their methods.

Once his anger would sufficiently abate – and once he'd be able to find that kind of time – he would address the issue.

Hopefully it wouldn't result in an insurgence of the elves, with the little critters proclaiming Harry their new emperor.

He could just imagine Moody laughing himself to death over it.

x

"My Lord," Lucius said with uncharacteristic deference, standing at the threshold of the Victorian Salon, where Harry, Vulcan Mulciber and Theodore Nott the Second were having a tea to calm down after their emotionally charged discussion about investigative reporters and about the pros and cons of violence against one's servants.

Harry didn't even need to look up to know that Lucius wasn't going to please him. Nonetheless, he gestured the man to a vacant chair, which Lucius accepted with his trademark grace.

Malfoy spent a few tense seconds rearranging the long, wide folds of his excessive sleeves, then he finally regained his poise and raised his eyes to meet Harry's. "I apologise, my Lord, but we failed to vote in Lady Prewett."

Vulcan let out a hiss.

"And?" Harry inquired, piqued with Lucius' overinflated sense of melodrama at the worst possible points in time.

"In the second vote, Madam Marchbanks became the Chief Warlock, with the provision that she would stay in office for six months only. It is irregular at best… but far better an option than Samuel Jordan." Lucius regally crossed his hands at the wrist in a way that displayed his snakehead cane.

Harry raised an eye-brow at the empty gesture.

"…if you will excuse me, my Lord," Lucius hastily continued, "my Lady wife is expecting me home. I will provide a written report which will include all the pertinent details, of course…"

"I must find my son," Nott jumped in. "Lucius, I'll accompany you, if my Lord doesn't need us for anything…"

Harry watched the men almost scramble to their feet, bow shortly, and beat it. It left him bewildered. "I know for a fact that I am not that frightening."

"Ordinarily, you are not, my Lord," Vulcan said dryly. "Yet I know of many whose nightmares have featured yourself on your more memorable days. Perhaps Malfoy's conscience is less than clean."

"I don't remember him being so skittish." Harry asked, wondering if he had once again missed something happening right under his nose because he was too damn busy with other things.

Vulcan took a deep draught of his tea. His hands were quivering when he put his cup down; the china rattled. He, too, was afraid of Harry, but despite that he found the fortitude to suggest: "It's quite possible that the voting would have gone differently, if the holder of the Black seats were present."

"And the holder of the Black seats is…?" Harry had an idea. It obviously wasn't Lucius – since he had been present at the session – and it wasn't Rodolphus, because as far as Harry knew Rodolphus had been put in charge of the Taboo-response units precisely because (aside from his undeniable ability) he had no other obligations.

The Tonks' had no seats.

That left Harry himself.

"My Lord has been sitting in for you, my Lord," Vulcan admitted.

Tom again.

Someone could have mentioned that, Harry mused grimly. He wasn't sure how he would have handled attending Wizengamot in addition to everything else, but so far he had managed everything he needed to do.

Fortunately, nothing horrible happened. Having Marchbanks in the position of the Chief Warlock only meant that they would be dealing with a kook that remembered the beginning of the nineteenth century and had that much more experience with changing regimes than anyone in the New Order did. She had seemed cautiously encouraging, after all.

And if that was a trick… it wouldn't be the first.

"You have held up well, my Lord," Vulcan whispered, looking in the opposite direction so that Harry could easily pretend not to have heard, since that way he escaped the punishment for presumption.

The grey afternoon light coming in through the window sharpened the lines on his face.

Vulcan was one of those who had known Tom for a bloody long time, and who were relatively familiar with Harry, too. Harry recalled him from the forties as a young wizard that had been a little too mindlessly obedient for anyone's good, but it seemed that time had changed the man for the better. He was now one of the few who accepted Harry as their leader unquestioningly, yet at the same time weren't blind to the reality of Harry's youth, inexperience, and preference for the shadows.

It was going to be over soon enough, anyway. Antonin should be returning tonight. And Tom would be awake tomorrow at the latest.

"Alright," Harry grumbled, standing up and wincing at the cracking of his joints. "That's enough leisure for one day. I have things to do."

"Thank you for your presence, my Lord," Mulciber said, hanging his head to hide a smile, which Harry noticed anyway. Damn devious Death Eaters, finding ways to make Harry relax and avoid getting Cruciated at the same time! Antonin was infecting all the veterans!

"I know what you're thinking," Harry warned him, startled at the humour in his own voice.

In the next instance there was a shift. It was different from this morning when Skeeter got tangled in the wards. He couldn't hear any voices or spells, but there was a patter of a legion of tiny bare feet.

Harry stumbled, struck by a sudden disturbance in magic.

"_Tom…_"

Unthinkingly, he Apparated.

Healer Dewhurst was stumbling backwards, away from the bed. She crashed into the bookcase just as Harry caught his balance. Tom's hand was extended toward the witch, fingers spastically forming claws, subconsciously attacking the perceived threat.

"_Settle down_!" Harry hissed, hastily stepping closer.

Tom's hand fell into the folds of the blanket, although whether that was because Tom gave up on attempting to kill his Healer or because he simply couldn't keep it up any longer was anyone's guess.

"…_Harry_?" Tom inquired, bemused at what was happening.

Harry briefly noticed that Dewhurst was now cowering in the corner, having the same reaction to spoken Parseltongue as three quarters of British wizards and witches did, but he was much more interested in the man in front of him.

Tom opened his eyes and blinked a few times. He seemed lucid, but unsure of why he was lying in bed, or why Harry was feeding him so much relief and elation through their bond.

"_What happened_?"

"_You've been sick_," Harry informed him. "_In fact, you're still sick. The woman you've tried to kill is Healer Cerys Dewhurst. She's here to make sure you don't die on me_."

Tom paused. He seemed to notice the difficulties he had with moving, but he wouldn't be himself if he accepted Harry's explanation at face value. "_I'm not sick. I do not get sick_."

"_You were very sick_," Harry argued. "_I had to do something before you drove yourself into the ground_."

Tom wordlessly snarled, for an instance looking fantastically ugly, but then the expression melted into one of deep thought. Eventually, Tom proved the acuity of his mind by deducing what had happened. "_You drugged me_."

The door swung shut behind Dewhurst, who had finally managed to gather her senses and decided to run away before she came to harm.

Harry envied her the option, but he wasn't a coward, and facing his irritable husband was nothing he hadn't done before. That was, after all, his purpose within the Order.

"_I gave you Fairy Laugh_," Harry corrected him, trying his best to come across as resolute and unapologetic. "A healthy person – that is to say, a non-exhausted and non-malnourished person – gets a little floaty and giggly on it. It put you out of commission for two days."

Tom didn't so much as blink. He simply ignored the validity of Harry's statement and struggled to sit up. He managed – barely. The cover pooled around his hips, and he grabbed its folds, intending to pull it away only to discover that his arms refused to cooperate.

He scowled at Harry, as if Harry was the one magically keeping him in the bed.

"I have work to do," Tom grumbled.

"Your work is being done," Harry assured him. Too aware of Tom's state of mind and of the fact that the man wouldn't welcome touch at the moment, he forced himself to clasp his hands behind his back. "You have an obligation that takes precedence to all else – an obligation to your followers and to me. It's your duty to get well enough to become our leader again."

Tom snarled.

Harry flinched. Shit, this was hard.

"You're _usurping me_?" Tom hissed, partly in English, partly in Parseltongue.

Harry gaped. "Is that a _joke_?" his voice, too, rose into a high-pitched hiss.

"You can't just take my-"

"I'm not taking anything away from you!" Harry cut in, not in the mood for baseless accusations from the one person who had fucked up – and worried him so damn much. "I'm just taking care of your Order, your Vision and your stubborn, self-destructing self!"

"I would kill you, except that you have already proven it wouldn't work."

Harry wished verbal punches left bruises, too, because he would show that one to Tom tomorrow. Grasping onto what scraps of self-control he still had, he stated almost calmly: "We've never before had a disagreement as bad as this one, Tom. You're hurting me and refusing to acknowledge it – I don't quite know how to react to that."

Tom sneered. "I'm getting up."

Harry sneered right back. "You _think_ you're getting up. But, darling, if you stopped leeching my magic, you'd flop over onto that mattress and be glad you've got enough energy left to continue breathing."

Sadly, it was the truth. Harry ached at the horrified realisation on Tom's face as he discovered that what little strength he had was supported on borrowed magic. He allowed Harry to help him lie down again.

"Please, don't endanger yourself," Harry begged.

Tom pursed his lips. "Send the Healer in on your way out."

Harry mutely complied. He didn't have the will to continue arguing. Hopefully, Tom would calm down and regard the whole situation more rationally if Harry left him alone for a bit.

He sent Dewhurst inside, promising her that she wouldn't be harmed. She didn't entirely believe him, but he must have intimidated her more than Tom did, because she went.

Harry figured he should return to the Victorian Salon, to assure Vulcan that nothing worrisome happened and preclude him from sending someone to his aid, and also to pretend that Tom was getting better and not throwing tantrums. Tom should have been too old and too wise for such uncompromising bullheadedness.

Maybe he was having the strangest midlife crisis known to man? Except he couldn't ditch his car and buy a motorbike, because he was a wizard, and, seeing as he was a Dark Lord, he didn't even have a broomstick he could exchange for a newer model… and if he tried to leave his spouse and find himself a younger and more attractive lover, Harry would be not only astonished, but also quite homicidal.

Harry shuddered. This time, the 'homicidal' wasn't an exaggeration for effect. He knew that if ever Tom decided he didn't want him anymore, he wouldn't take it lying down. He would probably go mad and destroy everything he had helped Tom accomplish, and that meant killing a great many people.

"My Lord!"

Harry blinked.

There was a pair of wizards standing in the middle of the staircase, which they had been ascending before they noticed him. One of them was a Montague – the other Antonin Dolohov.

Harry felt stupidly relieved at the sight of the familiar face.

Antonin, however, was staring at him, alarmed. "Are you unwell, my Lord?"

Harry shook his head. "I am as well as can be expected under the circumstances, I suppose. I find that my tolerance for my husband's recalcitrance is rapidly waning. With as much stress as I gather daily, I need to resolve this situation before I start killing allies out of sheer frustration."

Both elder men scowled.

Montague spoke: "We have seen you at the training areas, my Lord. I take it duelling practice does not help alleviate your stress?"

As if he had the time – or the energy – to practice dueling lately.

"Not enough. It helped in the beginning, but now I just want to punch Tom in the face, except that I'm scared he'd actually break-" Harry's voice caught in his throat. He hurried past the two former Death Eaters and out of the hallway, afraid that he was going to fall apart any moment now and dissolve into a fit in front of his followers, and that would just be embarrassing. Even if he trusted them. And he did trust Antonin and the younger Theodore and even the Lestranges.

He wasn't so sure about Montague, but if any rumours surfaced, Harry would have a viable target for his aggression next time he would need one.

Vulcan wasn't in the Salon anymore when Harry arrived, but Theodore the Third was sprawled on a chaise, seemingly half-asleep. Still, he was alert enough to immediately notice Harry's entrance.

"Mr Mulciber didn't expect you would return, my Lord," the boy said hesitantly.

"You disagreed?" Harry inquired mildly, sinking into an armchair and accepting a hot cup of coffee. He grimaced at the bitter taste, but found that it fit his present mood.

Theo shrugged.

Footsteps sounded, and then Antonin appeared in the doorway. He must have sent Montague off, knowing that Harry wasn't up to socialising. Clever man. Harry offered him a shallow smile as he shed his enormous, bear-like fur coat and slung it over the back of a chair.

"You brought snow with you, Mr Dolohov," Theo said, extending his hand toward the window.

Harry automatically turned to look. Big, fat snowflakes slowly descended, coloured yellow and orange by the light coming from the Manor.

"Hah," Antonin startled. "So it seems, doesn't it?"

Theodore sagely nodded. "It is only right at this time of year."

Just as they almost managed to distract Harry, Theodore's father turned up. With a sour grimace, he reported: "My Lord, Ginevra Weasley _humbly_ requests audience."

Harry hadn't expected that. Any other day he would have probably entertained her. It would be interesting to see if she had changed and how – it might have been something interesting to take Harry's mind off work and… other worries. However, currently he didn't feel up to meeting anyone in whom he didn't have the utmost confidence.

"Not now," he said. "Unless something's a nation-wide emergency, I don't have time for it." He took a leisurely sip from his cup and leveled a deadpan look at the elder Nott, daring him to protest.

Nott once again proved that he wasn't an idiot. He inclined his head and obeyed with a noncommittal: "Yes, my Lord."

Harry dared hope that would be the end of it, but Miss Avery nearly rammed into Theodore the Second as he exited. They steadied one another, preventing any slapstick from occurring. Manon's eyes remained on the wizard's back for a little too long as he walked away, before she turned to Harry.

"My Lord, the Riverbank Hall is ready for the ball-"

"_What_ ball?!" Harry groaned.

"It is Yule, my Lord," the witch said way too happily. "Saturday, twenty-first of December." That was obviously not ringing any bells, so she explained: "The Yule Ball is being held tomorrow."

"_Fuck_!" Harry hissed through clenched teeth, censuring it by slipping into Parseltongue. "How did I not know about this?!"

It was too late to cancel the party. Also, Tom would never forgive him. This was important – it was vital to the future of the Order. And Harry had to do it alone. He didn't know the people, hadn't been the one to maintain correspondence with them, and wouldn't know what he should say to whom. It was a disaster.

"Get me the guest list," he ordered.

Miss Avery hurried off to find it for him.

Harry accepted a refill from Theodore and, armed with caffeine and Gryffindor mulishness, turned to Antonin. "Help?"

x

It was well past midnight when Harry returned to the Green Suite.

Healer Dewhurst was gone, Chatter on duty, and Tom listening to the WWN in the bedroom.

"I thought you would be asleep," Harry remarked.

"I have been asleep long enough, I think." The accusation was clearly implied.

Harry's hands paused at the lacing of his doublet as he noticed the untouched tray on Tom's bedside. He sighed, briefly closing his eyes and begging for patience. "Why won't you eat?!"

"Because I don't bloody want to!" Tom barked.

WWN put on some slow, jazzy song, which Harry automatically filtered out.

"How is swallowing potions any better?!"

"Because I don't vomit them right back up!" Tom elucidated for him.

Harry snorted. "Fantastic! Except for the tiny, insignificant fact that you've overdosed on them and almost killed yourself!" He wasn't going to tell Tom about the house elves yet, for many reasons. One of them was the fact that it would have sabotaged his arguments. Another was that he didn't need Tom to try and kill house elves in his present state.

Tom bared his teeth, and his next words came out sibilant. "I have not overdosed on anything! I'm not a mentally deficient squib – I know what I'm taking and how much of it is safe!"

"As long as you ingest nothing unmonitored," Harry pointed out, crossing his arms in front of his chest. "But apparently that's what happened here, right? Since you claim you've been in control of the situation – until you weren't anymore."

"I don't know what happened," Tom admitted.

He meant to continue in the same breath, but Harry cut him off by pointing out: "I told you not to get addicted to potions."

"Ah, the inevitable 'I told you so'."

"Are we truly sinking to _this_ cliché?!"

"When you become the nagging-"

"Don't finish that statement if you value your dignity at all."

Tom gritted his teeth, but it gave him pause. After a short reconsideration, he decided not to say whatever he had been about to say.

"…I apologise."

"Accepted," Harry replied. He didn't even have to think about it. "Cliché as it is, do you acknowledge that I 'nag' because I give a damn?" He was not the only one giving a damn, but he was unsure if mentioning their followers' concern would anger Tom and make him close off, or, on the contrary, finally imprint upon him the true scope of the situation.

Tom hummed. He gave Harry a flinty non-smile. "If you don't have a goal, I suppose love is as good as anything to give you direction. But I have a goal – and obviously there is a point at which sentimentality becomes a hindrance."

"If it is untempered with practicality, perhaps," Harry allowed. "But I know what I am doing. If you've stopped trusting me…"

He didn't actually know how to end that statement. If Tom stopped trusting him, the fault was entirely on Tom's side. Harry had been a good consort, conscientious and helpful beyond what anyone could reasonably expect, and the fact that he advanced their plans a little beyond what Tom anticipated was not through any failing of his.

Tom had responsibility – to Harry and to his supporters. He needed to be reminded of it.

"I must request that you temporarily vacate these rooms," Tom told him coldly. "At least until such a time that I will feel safe in your presence – I am not presently capable of estimating how long it will take for me to regain confidence in you. Were you anyone else, you would have already been executed for poisoning me."

It was a testament to how often lately Harry had been sucker-punched by something Tom said, that he only nodded. Completely numb, he raised his hand and cancelled the glamours on the posters on the walls.

"Just so you have something to compare yourself to."

If Tom replied anything to that, Harry didn't hear it as he spun on his heel and stomped out of the chambers.

He didn't take his things. He wanted Tom to be constantly confronted with reminders of his absence: from the empty half of the vast bed to the clothing in the wardrobe to the bloody toothbrush on the shelf beneath the bathroom mirror.

He leant against the wide, cold sill under the window opposite the door of the Green Suite. Said door slammed an instance later, but there was no sound – it had been Silenced. Harry was glad for that. It didn't feel quite so final…

Oh, Merlin damn it, who was he kidding?!

He almost vomited onto Nott's floors.

The hardest thing about this was that Tom had been so good to him, so considerate, going out of his way to fulfill Harry's requests despite his own insane schedule, that Harry felt like he was the villain here. He was the bad one for being angry, for contemplating underhanded schemes, for not being strong enough to keep Tom from giving all of himself away.

He felt guilty.

It made his midnight sandwich taste like ashes in his mouth, and that in turn helped him understand that Tom also felt guilty. Finally, after weeks of just not understanding _why now_, now when they were supposed to be victorious and resplendent and reinforcing their people's belief in themselves, they were falling apart. Tom was killing himself, whether consciously or subconsciously, because his oftentimes insufferable self-confidence had broken under the weight of his conscience.

This was all Voldemort's fault.

And Voldemort was their fault. Harry didn't believe in karma, but it seemed like he and Tom had brought all this upon themselves by having created Voldemort – with their use of Horcruxes and extreme bonding vows and simply caring only about themselves without sparing a thought to how their relationship would affect the world around them. It seemed quite absurd: they had been just two teenage boys, falling in love. Could they be blamed for not realising that it would change the world?

And why on Earth had they even been given the opportunity? They had been born half a century apart, by rights they never should have been put into such a situation!

Was it magic itself? Who or what else could have caused Harry's trip through time?

Had this all been meant to happen? Was it a prophecy? Did divination actually work?

Harry had too many questions and no answers. Well, he had no objective answers. His heart was practically screaming at him that he ought to sod all the 'would' and 'should' and other destiny crap, and focus on what was important here. Tom was important. His presence or absence. His health. His regard. His Vision.

If, in the end, Harry would come out of the deal as the evil one, it would hardly be surprising, anyway.

Just, how was he supposed to deal with it without Tom? The last time Tom had been without Harry, he had _become_ Voldemort. The Vision couldn't afford another bout of insanity.

"Rip my heart right out of me, why don't you?" he whispered, tapering off into soundless sobs. He raised his hands to cover his face, just to take a moment, to catch his breath, to center himself. Maybe he should Apparate elsewhere, only for the night, but… what about tomorrow? There was too much to do and Tom was inarguably too weak to do it. Harry couldn't… couldn't give up now. Not when they've gotten so far.

A hand softly touched Harry's shoulder. For a moment he thought it was Tom, but instantly the mad hope was dashed – there was the frigidness of the bond and the fact that Tom physically couldn't move from the bed.

"May I?" a low voice inquired just as Harry was about to Obliviate the witness to his misery.

But this was Antonin. Harry trusted Antonin.

He let his arms down.

Without another word, Antonin gathered him into his arms and tightly squeezed him. Harry hadn't been hugged in such a long time that his body didn't know how to react at first, but then another sob shook him and he let go. Antonin bore his weight; he even dared to drag his knuckles lightly over Harry's hair.

They stood there for perhaps a minute, before Harry felt a little like himself again. He took a deep breath.

"Thank you."

Antonin's arms compulsively tightened, and before he released Harry he muttered: "_Anything_ for you, my Lord."


	17. Recurrence

A/N: Thanks, everyone! As of whenever since posting the last chapter, _Visionary_ is officially my most-read, most-reviewed story. I'm very grateful to all of you who made that statistic happen! Thank you! Admittedly, I have been much more emotionally invested in _Pantogogue_… great bloody Merlin, that's been so long ago – I feel like I'm an entirely different person now.

…but it's definitely a wondrous experience. Please, do keep on reviewing and making me feel like my effort has a point. I swear I'm bringing this story to a slow (very slow) yet satisfactory end. For you and myself. End of Harry-angst on the horizon in this chapter!

Deeply grateful for any and all encouragement and concrit,

Brynn

x

Chapter Fifteen: Recurrence

x

The Riverbank Hall was, technically, a Black property, but it had been in the custody of Narcissa Malfoy since the death of her mother Druella. It was a beautiful place, well-tended by a veritable commando of house elves. Its gardens were one of the best-acclaimed ones in Britain.

Harry walked along rose bushes covered under a thin layer of snow, deliberately not thinking of the fact that he was having the worst Christmas since he was ten.

It wasn't all bad. If he was the kind of person to wish for something, he would have wished for Tom's health to return swiftly and completely, and Healer Dewhurst had informed him that everything seemed to be going well, even ahead of the schedule she had predicted. That information, coupled with Antonin's unshakably supportive presence and Theo's small but vital displays of initiative put Harry into the proper mood for representing a radical political movement. If he had to dress the part – which he did, abandoning his customary doublet for a set of green and gold dress robes, with matching mousquetaires instead of his usual black leather gloves – then he might as well play the part to perfection.

The gates opened and behind them appeared Narcissa, resplendent in an elaborate garment of various shades of violet combined with pearls and white metal (and other things Harry didn't have a hope of even noticing, much less identifying). She glittered.

Harry pithily thought that it made a lot of sense, since Lucius was so very attracted to anything shiny.

"Welcome, my Lord," she said, effecting a regal air with years of practice. She showed the proper respect and somehow had the skill to make her poise not appear patronising. "I have taken the liberty of designating Clow to be responsible for your comfort and pleasure."

"Thank you," Harry said, sincerely hoping that he wouldn't need the attendance of a house elf, and then forgot whatever else he was going to add, noticing the decoration. The whole opposite wall of the hall was covered by a familiar floor-to-ceiling depiction of a chimera.

"Is it to your liking?" Narcissa inquired quietly, stepping up next to Harry with a smile that bordered on smug.

Harry stared at the beast's teeth and claws and feathers, and wondered where that all had come from. He knew, of course, the source of the original idea, made up long before the first Dark Mark had been drafted, but he had thought it had been long since forgotten.

"Where did you find that symbol?" he inquired, trying to conceal his sudden attack of inappropriate self-consciousness.

"Mr Nott – the younger Mr Nott, that is – suggested it. Forgive me the presumption, my Lord, but I felt there was a need for a symbol that would not be too tied to past unfortunate events." Narcissa's smugness gradually gave away to uncertainty. "It _is_ you design, isn't it?"

Harry had doodled several dozen attempts at creating a symbol for then-Tom's revolution in between his Transfiguration notes in the autumn of 1944. The one Narcissa had chosen hadn't been his favourite, but he had to admit that, re-imagined by a competent artist, it did look very nice.

"Yes," he concurred. "Though I notice that you commissioned someone incomparably more artistically gifted."

"It is an Appleby-Robinson, my Lord," Narcissa said proudly, as if that was supposed to mean something to Harry.

For a moment Harry simply gazed up into the maw of the chimera and regretted that Tom wasn't there to share the moment with him. Then he recalled that Tom had dismissed Harry's idea for a symbol as unendurably cliché; Harry had promptly challenged him to come up with something he found appropriate in its stead, and the only counter-suggestion to this day had been the Dark Mark.

Right – no way.

"Theodore," Harry numbly repeated. He should have known. Who else was that skilled at finding out little, inimitable ways of touching Harry's heart?

A flute of champagne appeared in each of Narcissa's hands. She passed one to Harry, who clinked it against the one she kept in a mute toast. She took a sip and craned her neck to look up at the mural again. "That young man has surprised everyone – and angered many. His life is about to become very complicated; the least malicious are the whispers of him being possessed by his Grandfather's spirit – or, else, him being his Grandfather reborn."

"Indeed?" If he were to wager a guess, Harry would have expected the rumours to be along the line of Theodore sleeping with him – which was preposterous, because Harry obviously liked the boy too much to give Tom a reason to kill him.

"It is quite horrifying, the sort of stuff and nonsense people would believe," Narcissa remarked, fairly successful at disguising her thirst after some juicy gossip. It wasn't even the usual kind of curiosity that yearned for a scandal to talk about – it was simply the ambition to know more than others, to feel more involved, more _trusted_, that drove her.

At the moment Harry wasn't particularly predisposed to indulging anyone, so he countered with an arbitrary: "You don't?"

"It is rubbish, my Lord," Narcissa scoffed, and once again made Harry like her a little more than before. "Mr Nott is sixteen, with all the youthful zeal that goes with it. I would know, since my son is the same age. Unfortunately, my son does not listen to either of his parents, labouring under the impression that he knows everything best."

When Harry was sixteen, seeing the future Dark Lord vulnerable and… _human_ had been all that he needed to grow a mad attraction, fall in love, get married and become a Dark Lord himself. He didn't want to know what seeing an _actual_ Dark Lord vulnerable was doing to Theo.

"Young Mr Nott's dedication has surprised everyone, I believe," Narcissa suggested, returning to her objective of fishing out information.

"Has it?" Harry responded noncommittally, a little curious about what she wanted to say, but remaining reserved. If she started harping on Theodore to draw out objections, Harry was going to need all his reticence to not demonstrate his innate lack of graciousness.

Narcissa gave him a small smile to placate him. Damn woman's intuition. "The rumours would not have been so wide-spread, were Mr Nott not so obviously enjoying your favour and trust."

"He has deserved both," Harry stated simply. He wasn't going into details, even though Narcissa might have been one of the more dependable followers. "And if the rumours serve to warn all those given to envy from attempting to harm him, then I do not mind."

Narcissa's smile wavered as her eyes stopped on Draco, who was loitering around the canapés, but she swiftly turned back to Harry and did her best to keep his attention away from her son.

"The rumours question _where_ Mr Nott learned such devotion toward your cause, my Lord. He was born years after his Grandfather's death. His Father's loyalty has never been in question; however, he is not the most outspoken of the Knights."

Harry mentally gave her props for substituting 'the Knights' for 'Death Eaters,' which was, of course, and allusion to the Knights of Walpurgis, and altogether classy of Narcissa.

Harry regarded the flute of champagne he had received from her. A discrete diagnostic spell found no magic and nothing toxic to human body inside. "Were you close with Theodore's Mother?"

She wasn't close with his Father, certainly, whether in the literal or in the implied sense, and Harry was hard-pressed to imagine another reason for why she would have been concerned about the boy.

"No, my Lord," Narcissa admitted. "As a matter of fact, I barely knew her. We have met a handful of times, as is wont for those who travel the same circles, yet I do not believe I have ever spoken more than a brief greeting to her." She looked about, confirming that none of the early guests were watching her, and drained the flute. It re-filled itself in her hand in a show of house elf skills _par excellence_. "The story ties in with the true reason for Theodore's devotion. Since this is not the time for long discourse, I shall be short: Mr Nott had at young age discovered his Grandfather's personal effects, including journals and several… keepsakes, shall I say, the man had gathered over the course of his acquaintance with my Lords. Following this, I assume, he would have found no sympathy at home. He had been Draco's classmate for several years before I ever spoke with him, but I… _discovered_ that by that time someone had already nurtured his faith in the Vision."

Harry didn't ask about what 'discovered' amounted to. It could have been something as innocuous as Legilimency or something as sinister as the Unforgivables; he didn't doubt that maternal instincts wouldn't have stopped Narcissa if she thought there was advantage to be found through using a young boy. Perhaps it was lucky for Theodore that at the time this was happening, Narcissa wouldn't have had the opportunity to use him.

"Someone," Harry repeated dryly.

"She will have a mutual acquaintance introduce her soon, I am certain," Narcissa assured him. "I apologise for the discourteousness, my Lord, but she does possess the wherewithal to make my life very uncomfortable, should I cross her plans. Already informing you of her existence will have its price."

"I don't like this game you are playing, Lady Malfoy," Harry warned her.

Narcissa bowed a little deeper than strictly necessary, displaying her contriteness yet refusing to say any more.

Had Harry been in a more congenial mood, he might have been glad for the warning. As it was he merely waved his hand. "Go keep an eye on your son and husband, Lady Malfoy. If either of their egos swell any further, they might start spontaneously levitating, and imagine the amount of ridicule the Malfoy family would have to endure for that."

Narcissa flinched, and with another – much shallower – bow dove into the gradually thickening crowd to grab at the nearest familiar face and start graciously welcoming the guests to the ball.

After her departure, Harry meandered in between a lot of people he mostly knew peripherally, by reputation or not at all, trying to engage in a short, cursory conversation with each of them – commenting on the quality of the party-planning, the refreshments and, when inspiration ran dry, on the weather, too.

He remained with an older couple of Dark sympathisers for a while, listening to their recollections of the sixties' 'Muggle Mania' and the boycott of wizarding values that happened during it. It made Harry shudder just hearing about it. He knew that Hermione would have been happy in that environment, but he much more keenly realised that the traditionalists would have felt like they were fighting for their very lives and flocking to Voldemort in droves.

Selwyn, a man who was surely older than a century, regaled Harry with a grossly overexaggerated tale of a youthful misadventure. He was funny and very vital for a little stooped old man, and his mind seemed to still be razor sharp as he admitted: "To this day I am not certain whether taking the Mark was folly or prudence."

Harry briefly closed his eyes, tightening his grip on the champagne flute. "Yes – yes…" he admitted. "My Lord husband has fallen into one of the pitfalls of the more powerful magics. I am not guiltless in this instance, either."

Selwyn's wife – a small, bony witch with tortured dark eyes – pressed a handkerchief to her lips.

Selwyn himself looked at Harry like Harry was a little boy with grass stains on his knees. "Whether it be failure or bad luck, my Lord," the wizard said, "the fact is that there is no better choice. We put our faith into you."

Harry sketched out a bow. Perhaps it wasn't proper, but he felt like doing it, facing this much older, much wiser and much more experienced man.

"At least we have no reason to doubt your intentions," Selwyn admitted, smiling under his rich yet wholly grey mustache.

"Thank you, sir," Harry replied, raising his glass. "I am sorry I haven't had the chance to make your acquaintance in the past."

"Oh, we understand," Mrs Selwyn spoke, looking at Harry with compassion that humbled him.

"Indeed," Selwyn agreed with her, putting a comforting hand on her shoulder. "While you were with the Dark Order, Rosier would have been in charge of the accounts. He started while still at Hogwarts, I believe. He became much more important in the field, and handed over his responsibilities long before he eventually died. In fact," he reminisced, "the Dark Lord asked me to take over the position, claiming that I was the only one who could see through Abraxas Malfoy's financial finagling."

'The only one who could be trusted,' Harry privately amended.

"One day," Harry said sincerely, "I would much like to hear more about the Muggle Mania."

Not ten minutes later, he was ripped out of a small talk with a group of carrier spinsters from the Ministry by McGonagall offering him a curtsey that very nearly made him blush.

"You seem to have grown into quite a social butterfly," the witch remarked with mild contempt.

Harry unconsciously smiled. Finally, someone had the same opinion of the schmoozing and the society as himself – unfortunately, he was in a position where he had to conform to some of those expectations.

"How are you, Headmistress?" he inquired, hoping to stretch out their conversation.

McGonagall disdainfully glanced at the table full of canapés, and then turned back to Harry.

"I won't lie to you, Mr Potter," she said. "I am not happy with you. I do not understand your actions and I cannot agree with you; however, I am not happy with Albus' actions either. You have put me into a position where it is my responsibility to decide what is right, and I do resent you for that."

Harry suppressed a laugh. McGonagall was always a breath of fresh air. She certainly did let him breathe more easily.

"How did Severus die if I may ask, _Mr Riddle_?" the woman inquired out of blue.

Harry, glad that he had yet to indulge in the golden bubbly liquid liberally provided for all the guests, paused at the address. It felt good to be recognised as belonging to Tom. He had no time to indulge, however, do he spoke: "You know he was abrasive on his best days."

"It was one of his more memorable qualities," the witch replied almost fondly, like Snape had been the most problematic child but secretly also the favourite.

Harry could see this conversation go horribly wrong. Hopefully, the settings would make McGonagall bite her tongue rather than start an argument.

"You can imagine then, how he would become when cornered."

He remembered the look in Snape's eyes as he had recognised Harry. The man's first instinct had been to try and save Harry. He had clung to the memories of Harry's mother. Harry candidly believed that Snape had refused to respect Harry as his lord because he hated him, but his actions had still, nevertheless, displayed strength of character that Harry couldn't but admire. He had done his best to keep Snape alive, despite the Potions Master's many betrayals.

"I tried to convince my Lord husband to give Snape a chance to prove himself, and I almost succeeded, too. But this chance was contingent on Snape submitting to my leadership, and since I was his primary bullying target for five years, that didn't go well."

"He gave you lip," McGonagall guessed, her expression pinched.

"He became huffy with me in front of the already very, very angry Dark Lord," Harry explained. "You do not suppose it was his way of assisted suicide?"

McGonagall pursed her lips. Her brows were drawn, her forehead bisected by a wrinkle. "I… do not want to think about it. It was a bad time for many. I would rather remember him as I knew him – brave, smart and strong."

Harry huffed a subdued laugh. "You knew a different man than I did."

"And yet you tried to save him, by your own admission," she noted, giving him a curious look.

"I did," Harry agreed. He had. He had intensely disliked Snape, but the hatred had abated over Harry's time in Slytherin in the forties. "Because he may have been a traitor, but I knew why he did it, and I don't deny that in his place, I may have done the same. Still, the fact remains that he had betrayed an oath."

"Mr Potter… _Riddle_…" the woman floundered, and in the end sighed. "Happy Christmas, Harry. Please, do not cut me out."

Harry nodded. "There are very few who try to honestly understand where I am coming from. I trust you, Headmistress." It was somewhat exaggerated – he only trusted McGonagall as far as he could throw her – but she was still someone on whom he could somewhat rely, and her compliance would make his life much easier than her spite would.

"Back at you, Mr Riddle," the witch said. "Although it is difficult to see my stude-"

Someone bumped into her.

"Oh, I am so sorry-" the interloper said, bowing contritely.

"Not at all," McGonagall replied, although her lips thinned and the corners of her eyes crinkled in aggravation.

"My Lord," the man turned to Harry, who finally recognised one of the Montagues. To his shame, he never could differentiate between them too well. There were five generations of them, and this one was probably older than Tom but younger than Selwyn… which would have made him about a hundred years old. "My son sends his regards," he said.

"Thank you," Harry replied generically.

"Eustace," a witch much younger than the elderly Montague whispered demurely, and the pair vanished into the suddenly thick crowd.

Harry had no idea when that had happened, but he couldn't move two steps without colliding with someone who desperately wanted his attention. There was a procession of Ministry flunkies who effectively separated Harry from McGonagall, followed by a gaggle of young socialites, who survived only because there would have been way too many witnesses to Obliviate. Finally, Harry found himself sequestered in a niche and shielded by Miss Avery's spacious crinoline and a similarly spacious friend.

He took a moment to centre himself.

Manon said a few phrases and then mentioned her Grand uncle. Harry used the chance to fluently segue into the topic of the Muggle Mania, which was apparently something the pureblood families taught their progeny about.

"We were rebels. Revolutionaries," the portly friend said proudly, as if she had been there. She couldn't be more than forty years old, so she would have been barely a teen.

"Like the hippies," Harry muttered.

"Just instead of 'make love, not war' we said 'stop being blind idiots and start acting smart,'" the portly witch replied, and Harry found himself impressed.

He opened his mouth to ask her name but Manon was already speaking again: "Unfortunately, even in the wizarding world brains don't grow on trees, and you can't buy them in a shop in Diagon Alley."

"Actually," the unknown witch objected, "there is a project going on in the Department of Mysteries that focuses on the study of wizards' and muggles' brains with the objective to enhance intelligence."

Harry clenched the fist of his free hand. "Salazar protect us – genetic manipulation ala Ministry of Magic." He tried to give space to the witches to laugh it off (and Manon did so), but he didn't consider that information to be humorous. He vaguely recalled the brain-like thing in the department of Mysteries that had attacked Ron. He hadn't thought about it for years, but now that the topic had been brought to his attention, he couldn't help but worry.

This information would make it to the shortlist. Tom would know what to do with it, or else Harry would designate someone to keep a closer eye on the Department on him.

"Serpi!" a Chinese man that might or might not have been Hu Chang called out, and the plump witch was gone before Harry had a chance to have her introduced to him. Wanting to know her name at least, he turned to Manon, but Manon was on her way to the dancefloor, arm in arm with Phillip Meadows.

Harry sighed and took advantage of the opportunity to survey the New Order. For the umpteenth time he wished Tom were there, although if he had been, he would have spent the whole evening engaged in verbal battles with the other politicians. Pius Thicknesse, Portia Prewett and Griselda Marchbanks congregated around the canapé table, next to a group of young people.

There weren't a lot of Hogwarts' age wizards and witches present. Draco was there, of course, charged with paying attention to which of the guests went for the mead, wine, liqueurs and whisky offered, and which refrained from indulging. The Malfoys probably kept comprehensive lists about the party behaviour of anyone and everyone. Theo had skipped the hoopla, but that was because he had asked Harry to be excused, and instead remained at the Nott Manor with the instructions to inform Harry immediately, should any emergency arise. Draco thus predictably ended up in the company of Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle, because the rest of their peers weren't paid to keep him company.

Then Harry spotted Daphne Greengrass and her escort.

It was Neville.

Neville Longbottom wasn't the nebbish people usually took him for – Harry knew that since he had taught the DA in his fifth year at Hogwarts, what seemed like a life-time ago – so it didn't surprise him that the boy had the courage to come. However, Neville had suffered greatly at the hands of some of the people congregating inside the Riverbank Hall, and he was a brash Gryffindor, and this had a huge potential for disaster.

Narcissa apparently came to the same conclusion, because she slowly but steadily made her way through the crowd toward the couple, throwing them a nervous glance every once in a while. Harry cast a Listening Charm.

"A most unexpected plus one, Miss Greengrass," Narcissa remarked, suggesting rather than performing a curtsey in Neville's direction. He was, technically, the Head of his House, but he was still sixteen.

The boy himself bowed back, and hastily excused himself.

Daphne pushed her shoulders back and raised her chin. "I imagine, Lady Malfoy. He expressed an interest – much more so in the event than in myself, but he was unfailingly polite and candid about it, which I appreciate greatly. Also, with him as an escort, I need not watch out for any underhanded attempts to harm me."

"Well-reasoned out, Daphne," Narcissa admitted, and not so inconspicuously tried to track Neville in the sea of people. She seemed to have lost him around the time Harry did.

"Thank you, my Lady."

"Are you quite as certain that he will not attempt to do harm to any of our guests?" Narcissa asked directly.

"Lord Longbottom is the pureblood Head of an Ancient House, Lady Malfoy, and aware of the proper code of conduct."

Harry knew that to be Slytherin-speak for 'no, and I don't care' and he had to quirk his lips. Daphne did have the potential to one day be as strong a person as her mother, but right now she was a rebellious teenager who just wanted to shock people into paying attention to her.

She, admittedly, did it with style.

Harry finally decided to exit his niche and brave the company, wanting to meet Daphne, inquire after her mother (another of the supporters of the New Order whose absence hadn't gone unnoticed) and perhaps reiterate his offer of support to their family.

He didn't get to her. Just before he would have run into the Diggorys and the McLaggens (a group that didn't make an iota of sense to him, and which he would like to avoid if at all possible) he practically tripped over someone he had not imagined he would meet tonight. He hadn't noticed them before, strangely, because the red hair should have been striking from distance, and one of them was tall enough to practically tower over most guests.

"Ginny?" he said, startled. She was looking very good. Also, she was wearing a new dress that, he was certain, hadn't been paid for from Mr Weasley's pocket. Harry noticed he was finally significantly taller than she.

"Hello, Harry," she replied flatly.

"Ron?" Of course, Ron was still, and always would be, a head taller than Harry, the heels on Harry's boots notwithstanding.

"Hey, mate," the boy said, much more congenially, over his sister's head.

"I honestly did not expect to see you here."

Ginny critically pursed her lips, probably still smarting from being denied audience when she had requested it.

Ron simply shrugged. "You and me both, mate. But Gin-Gin's enough of a celebrity these days to warrant an invitation to the Malfoys. I'm never gonna get why the Hell she wanted to go, but there's no way Mum and Dad would have let her without somebody chaperoning."

And they sent Ron?

Ginny rolled her eyes and shook her head, showing off glittering earrings with pretty blue gems. "There was a bit of a debate. Funnily enough, they didn't care to ask my opinion."

"And what is your opinion?"

"I'm perfectly safe here," Ginny proclaimed dismissively.

"You're as safe as anyone else, which is far from perfectly," Harry countered. Bellatrix might have been dead, but there were still many Death Eaters and affiliates whose sanity was a little questionable even while they were sober. With alcohol involved, the Riverbank Hall became a powder keg waiting for someone to strike a spark. Harry frankly doubted that either Ginny or Ron had been honest with their parents about where they were going.

It smacked of McGonagall's kind of machination – learnt on Dumbledore's lap, but with a little less hypocrisy involved. O course the Headmistress was still looking for ways of reminding Harry where he came from and what he was abandoning by taking up the mantle of a Dark Lord.

"Ron's been to the 'fortress of the Dark' before, and came out of it unscathed," Ginny pointed out, patently unworried.

"Hey," Harry protested, already feeling a little more at ease with the two youngest Weasleys than he normally was with anyone outside of the Innermost Circle (damn McGonagall for calling that one!), "it's not that bad!"

Ron snorted. "Your _boyfriend's_ casting Crucios on his toadies in the hallways, and that's okay?"

Truth to be told, for the first time ever Harry wished his 'boyfriend' _was_ casting Unforgivables on someone. Anyone. It might have reassured Harry, and the supporters – probably even the tortured victim him- or herself – that Tom was finally getting better. No such luck, it seemed. Tom had yet ways to go before he could appear in public.

"That's 'husband,'" he corrected.

"Trust us," Ron muttered, "we know. It's all I've been hearing about since you _came out_. Hermione's trying to shut people up, 'cause, mate, we're _so_ tired of hearing your fangirls wail about who you shag."

Ginny groaned.

For a brief moment, Harry was glad Tom wasn't there and hadn't heard that remark, else Ron would have found out that Tom had no compunctions about casting Crucios on people other than his followers. When he could, that was.

Harry suppressed a sigh and mentally rebuked himself for returning to this track of thought. He forced himself to concentrate and decided to take advantage of the fact that he had access to two people from the opposite camp. "What's the mood over there?"

"Confused, mostly," Ron admitted.

Ginny expounded: "People're waiting for the other shoe to fall. The muggleborns are scared and bewildered at the same time – like they expected to be hunted down. It feels like the Ministry is endorsing you, and it's not like it's a secret that you're continuing what Voldemort started."

Harry grimaced. It was ironic. This was the name that he had once so adamantly shouted from the rooftops in defiance of the ubiquitous fear, which he had taught his friends to say out loud unapologetically, the one that made wizards and witches flinch, shudder or scream. Now it was him who had to suppress a shiver at hearing it, if for very different reasons.

Voldemort was Tom brought so low that there was barely anything left of him, and compensating with aimless rage. It was the bogeyman under their bed.

It was, Harry was certain, one of the reasons for Tom's eating disorder that had started this entire debacle.

Harry should have seen it, but recrimination wasn't helping anything.

"May I have this dance?" a new voice asked.

Harry felt like he had blinked and suddenly Neville was there. He didn't say a word to Harry. In fact, he seemed to all but ignore Harry's existence.

"Hello, Neville," Harry said.

Neville seemed to shrink, but he remained rooted to his spot and expectantly looking at Ginny.

"I'll talk to you later, Harry," Ginny decided, and let Neville lead her to the dance floor, where they joined in some kind of dance they both appeared to be competent at, and which Harry couldn't even identify with hundred percent certainty. It might have been quadrille? Despite Tom's effort, he wasn't nearly as cultured as he probably should have been.

"Ginny's been meeting him."

Harry blinked, but managed to not show any more of his surprise. He had not known. Granted, he and Tom had been having their rough patch when Tom wasn't telling him much of anything… and it wasn't as though Harry had some sort of right to Ginny. She could meet whomever she wanted. Harry had known she had wanted to meet Tom, and that they corresponded.

"But not lately. Like there's something wrong." Ron shifted from foot to foot, and finally gathered his resolve to ask: "Is there something wrong? Will we be killed?"

"Absolutely not!"

There was something wrong, certainly, but it was not Ginny incurring such displeasure that either she or her family would be in danger as a result. If someone tried to endanger the Weasleys (without them inviting such endangerment by attacking first), Harry would be settling the matter personally and permanently.

"Good to know." Ron slumped with relief, but a moment later he was standing ramrod straight again, grimacing and poking at the stitching along his side, where concerned mothers, or seamstresses paid by concerned mothers, usually applied the Stopslupming Spells that supported correct postures in unruly youths.

"Will I be seeing her around the Manor?" Harry inquired, glancing toward the dance floor. He thought he might have seen a redhead migrate from dancer to dancer, which seemed to be a part of the dance. He couldn't see Neville anymore.

"She needs to finish school before she seriously decides anything," Ron said with such an air of responsibility that Harry was briefly amazed. The boy frowned. "But I'm not sure she will. She's as stubborn as Mum and Dad put together. Maybe more. She did make them let her come here, after all." He blinked and raised both hands, one palm-out, the other not quite so because he was holding his wand in it. "Not that I don't like your party, Harry, but the company could have been better." He grimaced at Draco, Vincent and Gregory, who had moved on from loitering around the drinks and were bothering the young socialites Harry had earlier managed to escape.

"_Au contraire_, Monsieur Riddle," spoke a newcomer, cutting into the conversation with confidence he believed excused his behaviour. "Splendid do. _Splendid_. Yvonne _justement_ said to me 'ow marvelous she finds it."

The woman standing a half-step behind the speaker blandly smiled.

"Oh, Yvonne doesn't speak _pas_ Eenglish."

Harry didn't know either of these people. He didn't even have any idea about who they _might_ be, and he had conscientiously read through the list of the invitees that Miss Avery had provided for him. He didn't want to insult someone who might be useful to Tom, but at the same time he wasn't going to tolerate rudeness.

"I shall relay your appreciation to Lady Malfoy," he lied, and turned to Ron.

"I've got to go and find Gin-Gin…" Ron preempted further conversation. "Harry, if you ever need to escape, our door's always open to you. Unless you come to kills us. But after Mum calmed down, she started raving about feeding you again, because apparently rich people can't cook. Though the food here's awesome. Don't tell Mum I said that – she'd disinherit me."

Harry didn't get a chance to respond. Ron was swallowed by the crowd, and the French couple stood in Harry's way, preventing him from following if he had been so inclined.

"Ah, we wanted to sank you, Monsieur-"

"Master Lord Harry…" a thin house elf voice spoke insistently. Harry looked down.

Clow would not interrupt a social gathering unless there was an emergency requiring Harry's attention. He turned to the French couple. "Please, excuse me for a moment. I'm afraid this cannot wait. Clow, come with me."

He made his way through the crowd, which practically parted when they saw him striding toward them with a grim expression. Once Harry and Clow were out in the corridor, and there was only minimal chance of any guests overhearing, the elf explained: "Master Lestrange is being drinking too much in the gallery."

That was nothing new. Harry guessed this was Rodolphus, because Rabastan didn't drink enough for it to be worth mentioning and Tybalt was an abstaining former addict to psychedelic potions, so he knew better than to touch alcohol. Rodolphus was very good about only letting himself go when he was not expected to be needed to perform any duties, so Harry didn't consider his tendency to be a problem. On the other hand, getting drunk at a Malfoy social gathering was at best unwise.

"Thank you for alerting me, Clow."

The elf bowed mid-step and disappeared with a soft pop, clearly uncomfortable with the courtesy. Blasted Lucius and his complete lack of regard for anyone he considered beneath himself.

Harry didn't particularly rush to the gallery, and thus he wasn't the first person to find Rodolphus. When he arrived at the top of the staircase and surveyed the length of the gallery lined with portraits and sculptures, there was the brocade-clad back of Neville Longbottom blocking his view.

"I hate you," the boy said in a low voice.

Harry palmed his wand. He didn't want to hurt Neville, but he was going to protect his supporters even against past friendly acquaintances, especially when said supporters were intoxicated and possibly unable to defend themselves.

"Look, kid…" Rodolphus slightly slurred, pulling himself upright in the armchair and setting an empty tumbler on a richly engraved and gilded empire tripod table next to it. "I'm fuckin' sorry, but that was such a shitty day. We're all sick an' doped up on potions 'fter the backlash from the Marks when the Dark Lord got blown up. Rabastan Apparated an' just collapsed, gibberin'. Ne'er even entered the 'ouse. Barty'd been half-crazy, tryin' to find out what 'appened to the Lord. Bella… just wanted to torture someone. She's always been off, but back then we all 'urt like buggery an' she wanted to inflict that hurt on the rest o' the world."

"Am-"

"I fuckin' got you out o' there before they turned you into vegetable, too!" Rodolphus snapped.

Harry almost acted; what stopped him was the realisation that Neville was confronting the Lestrange empty-handed.

"Am I supposed to be grateful?" the boy asked with a bite in his tone that Harry didn't recall having ever heard from him.

"Fuck, no, kid," Rodolphus protested, shaking his head and letting it fall against the backrest of the armchair. "Ne'er. I guess I'm just drunk 'nough I wanted to say sorry."

"Are you asking for forgiveness?"

"I'll leave you alone." Rodolphus staggered to his feet, extending a hand to brace himself on the wall.

"Wait!" Neville cried. "I… I never understood it. The why of it, I mean. I tried to imagine – what could have been the purpose? What the heck did those Death Eaters want? Why my parents? Why me?" He spread his hands wide in frustration. "So, that's it? Wrong time, wrong place?"

"There was a prof'cy, 'bout a brat with the ability to defeat the Dark Lord bein' born. It could've been you or Harry Potter. Maybe Barty believed that the Dark Lord was alive, and we oughtta be eliminatin' the threat." Rodolphus sank back into the armchair and hid his face in his palms. "'s that better?"

Neville gaped. "What kind of question is that?!"

"I'm drunk, kid," Rodolphus pointed out. "Barty's been Kissed and Bella's dead, if that makes you feel any better." His voice cracked when he spoke of his wife.

Harry shuddered at the idea of killing his spouse, regardless of it being a mercy killing. Such a thing would have been impossible for him and Tom, but he had a shadow of an idea of how that must have felt for the man. He felt guilty for the first time.

Neville ran his fingers through his hair. "I hate this. I hate wanting to hurt you, but I can't stop it."

"I'd let you, 'cept that I'm on duty tomorrow, so I don't've the time. Sorry." Rodolphus glanced up and his mouth stretched in a parody of smile. "You grew up well."

Neville eyed the man's empty tumbler. He went over to the table, took the decanter of whisky and poured Rodolphus as much as fit into the glass. He set the decanter back onto the table and, before walking away, said: "I hope you choke on that."

Harry put his wand away. He didn't need it for an encounter with Neville.

"Harry," the boy spoke when he noticed the resident Dark Lord standing in front of him. "I was looking for a water closet."

"It's downstairs," Harry replied blandly. "Out the ball room, to the right, first door."

Neville nodded. He set out toward Harry, passed by him without another word, without even another look, and continued down the stairs.

Harry spent a few seconds just breathing. Then he reminded himself that there was no way he could win them all, relaxed a bit, and went over to Rodolphus.

"I fucked up," the man muttered, staring into the tumbler of whisky Neville had poured for him.

"Everyone does, sometimes," Harry dismissed his concern. "I don't think you're a bad man, Rodolphus – although I'm not sure how much that helps, coming from a Dark Lord."

Lestrange laughed shortly, the kind of sound that took the place of tears, which were beneath his dignity to display.

"Maybe next time you should make your excuses and take any closer encounters with bottles of liquor into privacy," Harry said dryly. He didn't have the heart to discipline Rodolphus. At least the man had given him a reason to escape from unfamiliar French people.

"I really should," Rodolphus agreed, possibly forgetting whom he was addressing.

"Clow!" Harry called out.

The house elf popped in, bowing low and trembling.

"Take Rodolphus home."

He still had to go back and schmooze.

x

Feeling wrung after the most exhausting ball he had ever had to attend, Harry grimly surveyed the vacant Green Suite in the pale glow still being issued from his wand

He felt his throat tighten. He had to get the Hell out of here, away from the deceptive familiarity, from the memories of intimacy that burned his emotionally hypothermic mind. He unsatisfactorily slammed the Silenced door behind him and roamed the Nott Manor looking for followers that hadn't been felled by too much socialising, standing around, dancing, eating or drinking.

The corridors were empty. He knew that, if he wanted to, he could find young Theo in the portkey chamber. However, he was feeling too angry and tired for that. He wanted… He wanted whom he always wanted, but if he couldn't have him, he wanted Antonin. Antonin hadn't been at the Riverbank Hall, but he might not have been invited, seeing as he had been sent out of the country for a while.

Harry didn't find Antonin. He happened upon Tom, who was sitting in the Open Study, ensconced in the armchair in front of the fire, reading reports. By the look of the parchments, one stack was from the Aurors and the other from the Taboo-response teams.

Still, his presence was a statement on Tom's part – that he had managed to get around Harry's measures designed to keep him inside their chambers and recuperating.

"Doge remains Dumbledore's most feckless flunky," Tom remarked, without turning to look in Harry's direction. "To the point of repeating his mistakes."

"The Little Hangleton blow-up?" Harry guessed, somehow antsy. He had read about it in the Prophet, but hadn't gotten around to the reports yet – and this was at least the second time this had happened to him, so it was probably good that Tom would take over again soon.

Still, right now it was _too soon_.

"It was a well-known base. Any halfwit would send curse-breakers first, not run in with his whole entourage and have a casual look around waiting for the time-delayed explosion."

Harry shivered. There was something frigid, bitter and painful trickling through the otherwise inert bond. Tom was trying to lull him into a sense of safety, so that whatever he had to say would come out of the left field and hurt that much more. Harry had seen him use the strategy on his followers in the past – this faux casual chat was a personalised form of it, specifically for Harry, but it was the same thing nonetheless.

"Oh," Harry said as lightly as he could, even though his throat was tight. "So your house is now a smoking hole in the ground. Congratulations on that."

"Careful, Harry," Tom warned him, still not looking up from his parchment, "your defensiveness is showing."

"So are your bones," Harry retorted. "All of them."

"So I gathered from the metaphor covering my walls."

"You don't notice the similarity?"

"It was so indistinctive next to your melodrama."

"I've got two words for you, Tom: _anorexia nervosa_."

Even though Tom literally couldn't scare Harry, his glower and snarl set him on edge. Realising that he was not helping his cause by getting angry, but quite past the point of being able to control himself, he sneered: "Yes, I did just tell you that you were suffering from a muggle girls' mental disease." It was a lie, of course, but its point was simply to strike home, to pick at Tom's weakness – and that it did.

"I won't take this from you-"

"Like you ever took _anything_ from _anyone_," Harry snarled. "Except potions from Tannenbaum – those you did take. And vomited them right up, I'd bet. If you were a muggle, you'd be dead by now-"

"But I'm not a muggle."

"No," Harry agreed, shaking his head. It was becoming quite a struggle to keep himself from tearing up. "No, you're the greatest wizard I've ever known…. And you've almost died because you let your own fucking mind kill you."

Tom scoffed, setting down the parchment he had been reading. "I won't die," he stated with the certainty of a man who had created six Horcruxes – like he had forgotten that he was mortal again.

"Well," Harry said tonelessly, "if you do die, I'll follow you. I'd have thought that I meant more to you… but, hey, I'm hardly the first man disappointed by his lover." He rubbed his face and decided that it was the highest time to get away from here.

He walked out, straining his ears, for his foolish heart hoped that Tom would call him back, even if only to continue arguing. What he heard instead was: "_I preceded you on that list_." He closed the door and hugged himself against the cold and the torchlight shadows.

A Manor was never truly quiet. The ghosts, confined to the Northern Wing, despised silence, house elves never came to a halt, plus fauna, flora, even weather – that all created the background cacophony that made Harry feel his solitude all that more harshly.

"_Damn you_," he hissed. Working up enough anger to deal with his fear and helplessness, he strode down to the Entrance Hall, aiming for the fountain. He could just as well sit and brood (and secretly break down) in an aesthetically pleasing place.

Halfway there he felt a lurch near his heart. He took an about face and strode back. It didn't seem like Tom needed immediate aid, but Harry's whole self felt like it was being pulled, and he didn't have the obstinacy to argue.

Theo the Third was kneeling in the centre of the hall, both hands pressed to the floor. "My Lord!"

"What's wrong?" Harry asked, hoping that they weren't being attacked. After Doge's 'mishap' in Little Hangleton, there would be next to nothing left of the militant part of the Order of the Phoenix, but there was still the off chance that a part of the Ministry might have gathered the wherewithal for an assault. Also, many Ministry pen-pushers had been invited to the Yule Ball, so the location and time were public knowledge – it would make sense to attack now.

"The wards are fluctuating, my Lord," Theo admitted helplessly. "I don't know why. Father would, but he has not returned yet-"

"_There you are_," Tom spoke over the boy's anxious report.

Harry came to the conclusion that there was no attack on the wards – it was Tom misusing the magic he had leeched from Harry to project his aggressive disposition.

"_So you can't survive with me after all. You're gone two minutes and already you're calling to me like a toddler who had wet his nappy cries for_-"

"_You're the one who's pulling me_-" Harry protested, but even as he was saying it he realised that the sensation they were experiencing was apparently mutual.

Theo scrambled back, automatically kneeling next to Harry, moving away from the enraged, hissing Dark Lord.

Tom sneered at him. "_So that's how it is. They want you to lead them rather than me. They were in on it_-"

"_Have you gone insane again_?!"

"_Crucio_!"

Theodore screamed.

Harry knew that the Cruciatus was meant for him, except that Tom did have enough rationality left that he would have known that casting harmful magic at Harry directly would be futile. It certainly wasn't any decency on his part, and Harry knew that Theo unfairly suffered for his own lapse in judgement.

Tom stopped only when Harry forcefully, for the first time ever, cut off the flow of magic between them. The action sent a jolt of literal pain through his body.

The curse failed and Tom staggered.

"Enough!" Harry shouted, perfectly aware that he was making himself into the target of Tom's ire once again – and happy about it. "Theodore, leave if you can."

The boy didn't need more encouragement: he struggled to his feet and, once there, ambled toward the exit.

Tom was momentarily taken aback by his inability to cast spells, as if he had forgotten he was essentially living on borrowed life force. His eyes strayed from the wand in his hand to the one on Harry's belt.

"That magic-"

"Is mine," Harry filled in. He dissolved the block a moment later, because he was afraid Tom would plant his face in the floor otherwise.

"Like the Death Eaters?"

"You mean the New Order?"

Tom sneered. "Whatever you like to call them. It's not like it matters. You can call them your Knights or your slaves, it comes down to the same thing. You want them to belong to _you_." He pulled himself as tall as he could and his eyes flashed red when he looked at Harry. "How do you imagine you will lead anyone anywhere, if you can't even stand in front of the Wizengamot to vote? Your incompetence set us back _months_."

Harry abhorred public functions, and the idea going into Wizengamot made him nervous enough to want to chew his nails, but he would have gone if he had known about the Black seats. He crossed his arms in front of his chest. "Last time you were angry with me for being too fast, now I'm too slow-"

"You're just unable to follow a plan," Tom summarised.

"You don't tell me half of your plans," Harry countered. "And what are they even? To drive yourself into the ground to show me I can't do this without you? Because, newsflash, darling, the Order hasn't fallen apart yet."

"This was _your_ plan all along, wasn't it." Tom scoffed. "Of course. I always new you made a _great_ Slytherin. _So_ cunning. You rushed the victory so much that I got buried under the Ministry's shit and then, when I was distracted and tired, you put me out of commission to take over. But I'm not dead yet, _darling_."

"I would not do anything of the sort," Harry replied, icily patient on the surface, "and you know it. Or you would, if you did not let your wrath control you."

The level of rage – and confusion, and injured pride and agitation – Tom transmitted through the bond assured Harry that there was nothing he could say that would help. He wondered if this would result in them killing one another; Tom certainly seemed like he was capable of it right now.

The front gates crashed open and Harry spun, hoping it wasn't Theodore returning. Tom _would_ have killed Theo. Or attempted to.

"My Lords," Antonin spoke, glaring at them.

Harry was horribly certain that Theodore had called him.

"Another of your converts? Has he sworn to follow you like a good dog? I hope you _rewarded_ him accordingly."

That implied suggestion struck Harry mute. What in Merlin's thrice-damned name?!

"My Lord," Antonin said to Tom with shocking pity. "Being loved by such a man as your husband is a blessing most of us cannot dream of experiencing. However, if you take him for granted, you do not deserve him!"

Tom's face contorted in rage that abolished all sanity. Harry knew him well enough to launch himself forwards into magic-supported supersonic motion. Ironically, it was Tom's specific way of using magic to give himself superhuman abilities – the only way he could have survived with such a frail frame. Tom had learnt to utilise it long before Dumbledore had deigned to reveal the existence of the wizarding society to him. Harry was the only one who had ever managed to emulate it.

"_Ava_-"

Harry's hand clamped around Tom's wrist and forced his wand aside, but the shock was enough to stop Tom from uttering the rest of the curse. He whirled around, breaking Harry's hold on him, sending waves of their shared magic all over the Hall. He ignored Antonin, who remained frozen with his eyes closed and an impassive expression on his face, waiting for the death blow in absolute submission.

Harry reflected Tom's murderous glare back at him. "Don't you dare!" he hissed, taking a step backwards, because the Darkness emanating from Tom was turning his stomach. Tom spun on the spot and stalked away as, Harry was grimly aware, it took all his self-restraint to not attempt to slay Harry in that instance.

Harry's throat was tight as he watched his husband's back, and it was only the height of his own anger that allowed him to speak despite it. "Do you _want_ him to kill you?" he asked Antonin in a voice more than metaphorically icy. The man's lips were already turning blue with the chill as he smiled.

"What better death could there be than that at the hands of my Lords?" His eyes briefly strayed to the departing figure of Tom, before he boldly recaptured Harry's gaze. "And I know _you_ will not kill me, Lord Harry."

"Is this your way of driving another wedge between us?" Harry snarled, rather tempted to prove Antonin's last statement incorrect.

Antonin's impassiveness finally broke, and he incredulously stared at Harry. "_That_," he said after a moment, "is utterly _ridiculous_, my Lord. You are one entity. There is _no_ 'between you'."

The statement took wind from Harry's sails. His shoulders fell and he hung his head, sparing but a glance at Tom, who was nearing the door by now, still in the Hall only because he was less than subtly listening in.

"There obviously is," Harry replied, sounding as hollow as he felt. He was past bitterness, fighting only on momentum from before the point of resignation. Odd. He hadn't noticed when he had given up.

Unexpectedly, Tom stopped in his tracks. He pivoted and set out in the opposite direction, back to Harry, who had to turn away, afraid he would start bawling any second now. What the Hell could have been so important as to cause this… this loss of trust, loss of _understanding_?

"If I'll walk to the end of world…" Tom said out of blue.

The words echoed from all sides, and something inside Harry broke. He hugged himself, and his tears finally spilled over. So foolish… Such a stupid, banal poem. In the end, so meaningless.

"Only with thou by my side," Harry whispered, not quite certain why, as if something briefly took over and used his mouth to create that sound, which the echo magnified so that it could be clearly heard.

How quaint, though, was the idea of Harry or Tom going anywhere without the other? What would they do there? Why go? Where find the motivation? The Vision had existed before them and would continue to be after they have died, but they – together – were what made it come to life.

Tom grasped onto the whisper, never minding that Harry hadn't wished to speak. "The secrets kept so long untold, I never shall from thyself hide."

Harry shook his head in denial, but he was too weak to not turn around and look at his husband.

Tom was _glowing_.

Faced with that sight, Harry understood the futility of his struggle. They could never be estranged even if, by some cruel twist of fate, they decided they wished it. The reason was simple: "My magic is thine – thine is mine."

There really was no way to deny it, considering the halo that surrounded them. They were bound together by magic, and magic took it upon itself to remind them why. In a way, it was comforting to know that Tom didn't spout the rhymed drivel spontaneously.

"I pledge my very soul to thou."

Ah. Perhaps it wasn't all drivel. There were some very real oaths in it, and apparently Harry and Tom had come precariously close to breaking some of them. They had lost the cognizance of all the promises since the problem of the Horcruxes had been solved. They _belonged_ to each other, in the most intimate sense, and that should have overshadowed any minor differences of opinion and abolished any major ones.

"To me thou brighter than stars shine," they spoke in unison and Harry giggled hysterically, because they really were shining like two fledgling novas. "To thou I'll remain true, I vow," they finished together.

Like years ago during the Priori Incantatem, the light enveloping them separated into number of strands and formed a cage, effectively cutting off any escape routes: for two people literally unable to kill one another, it was rather a failsafe mechanism of reconciliation.

"This brings back none too pleasant memories," Tom remarked, once again in the possession of his own vocal chords.

Harry shuddered at the amount of spite coming through the bond.

Tom simply went on: "It is fitting, though – this happens when you stand against me. The same thing happened in Godric's Hollow when you were one, only then I didn't know enough to stop pushing."

As Harry presumed, there had been a Harry-shaped hole in Voldemort's memories. What was left of Tom after his soul had been split five times recalled that there had once been a 'second Dark Lord,' but he had no shape and no name past the title bestowed upon him _post abitem_. However, what shocked Harry was that now, with his memories intact, Tom believed him inimical.

That angered him, which was fortunate, because Harry had always used anger to fuel him. "I promised you I was going to stop you from making mistakes if I could – killing Antonin would have been a mistake," he insisted. "Apart from the regret you _would_ be feeling once you calmed down, Antonin is one of the most able and trustworthy of our supporters. Who would we rely upon daily?"

"Aurelius," Tom suggested absurdly.

"He would not abandon his post willingly," Harry countered dismissively.

"I would order him."

"Way to make him keen on serving us in that position." Harry shook his head. "Tom, you were always great at making your followers _want_ to do your bidding – that is true power. Anything else would be just intimidation and extortion, and that can never last." He glanced toward the gates. "Theodore would lay his life down for either of us, without hesitation. He is but a child, and it's easier to inspire the young, but he is all the example needed to show why _you_ are the leader, and not another extraordinarily powerful wizard."

Tom followed his line of sight. "He pledged himself to _you_, Harry. It's easy to see who of us inspires more loyalty."

"_I_ am loyal to _you_, Tom, which makes this argument pointless."

Tom rubbed his temples. He appeared to be shrinking in front of Harry's eyes, losing the aura of power and becoming a sickly, undernourished human being.

"What is it?" Harry inquired.

"I never thought I would be jealous of you. Don't get me wrong, I am proud… but a part of me wishes they would feel that way about me, too."

"They do." Oh, Merlin, as if that hadn't become patently obvious in the past minutes. "_Antonin_ does. There could be no other earthly reason for him to sacrifice his life to save our relationship."

"I almost killed Antonin."

"Yes."

"Like Theodore… exactly the same way. For all I know maybe for exactly the same reason…"

"And that is why I stopped you."

There was a while of silence as Tom mused, and eventually a soft yet distinct: "Thank you."

Harry blinked away a fresh wave of tears. "You are welcome. I see from this paradigm shift that you have calmed down. How do you feel?"

"Bad," Tom replied honestly. His eyes, once again teal yet framed with deep bruising and dominating his face, implored Harry to reassure him that everything wasn't lost. He had never looked more vulnerable, more fragile.

Harry wanted unbearably much to promise him that everything would be alright, that Harry would _make everything alright_, but there was still a metaphorical bleeding wound in his heart. He knew thanks to the bond that Tom wasn't setting him up for another fall, that the contriteness was genuine, but he needed a promise. "Will you listen to me now?"

"That might be difficult," Tom admitted.

Harry nodded. At least they weren't starting with lies. "Come with me. You'll sleep tonight, for at least twelve hours, and _eat_ tomorrow. In the meantime, I'll be managing your budding empire."

"_Our_ empire."

Tom was on the verge of falling asleep, and Harry decided it would be easiest to simply Side-along Apparate him. He locked his arms around Tom's emaciated shoulders and, for a moment, met Antonin's eyes.

In the heat of the argument, Harry had almost forgotten the wizard was still there. He couldn't find it in himself to smile, but he mouthed 'thank you,' and before he disappeared he caught a glimpse of Antonin bowing, deep, with reverence so great that it had to be love.


End file.
